


with both feet on the ground

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Doppelganger, Fae & Fairies, Fairy Tale Elements, Family Feels, Folklore, Hasetsu, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muteness, Mutual Pining, Self-Indulgent, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Touch-Starved Victor Nikiforov, figure skating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 52,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28481922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: Yuuri knows the man in front of him. He’d know him even without his glasses, even if he couldn’t see at all and could only hear the distinctive rush of blades on ice. There’s no question, because Yuuri’s bedroom is plastered with this face.It’s not the exact same face from Yuuri’s posters. The man on the beach is thinner, his chin and cheeks prickling with thick stubble, and his silvery hair is shaggy, longer than Yuuri’s idol has worn in years, but still in that moment Yuuri has no doubts. He’d recognize those eyes anywhere.But Victor Nikiforov can’t be on a beach in Kyushu right now. More than that, he can’t be here with his hair hanging so long it sweeps his shoulders, his cheekbones hollow and his collarbones protruding, wearing clothes that seem to have been through a typhoon.He can’t be here right now, because Yuuri watched Victor Nikiforov leverage his signature quad flip to take second in the short program during the World Championships in Tokyo last night.Complete at ~80k and updating weekly
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 265
Kudos: 258





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends, and welcome to “with both feet on the ground.” I’ve been working away on this baby since February 2019, so I’m excited to finally share it with the world. The fic is complete and edited, and a new chapter will be posting every **Friday at 7 PM EST** (though I may throw up a few early for special occasions).
> 
> Disclaimer up front: While I always try to be respectful and accurate about my details when it comes to skating, terminology, timelines, and cultural markers, there are spots throughout this story where I’ve very much blurred the edges and picked entertainment value over accuracy. If you’re the type who gets put off by stuff like _unrealistic training practices in figure skating_ in your fic, you’ve been warned, because that’s definitely a thing here. Like, definitely. I know the rules and standards, and I’ve elected to ignore them in places. Deliberately. For fun.
> 
> The title of this particular fic is cribbed from the song [“Gravity” by Mary Fahl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISjBz_DIbKI). 
> 
> _We will move mountains  
>  Turn rivers around  
> Defy the force of gravity  
> With both feet on the ground  
> And then the weight of the years  
> Will disappear from our souls  
> And I'll always be your harbour  
> I'll always be your home._
> 
> Art in chapter one is a commission by the incredibly talented [impatvish](https://twitter.com/impatvish)

_“I will grant your wish, but I have taken my price. Everything was what you offered, and so everything is what I shall have."_

-

“Yuuri…” 

The photographers and fans are calling, trying to get his attention for a burst of pictures. Yuuri blinks, squinting against the searing lights in the arena and wishing for the protective barrier of his glasses. There’s a sea of ice beyond the edge of the podium, and he can barely make out the banners at the rim of the rink. The Cyrillic characters on them look even more like squiggles than usual. 

“Yuuri...”

He can feel the silk ribbon around his neck, the weight of the medal on it pulling him forward. He scoops it up to hold for the photos. The gold is blinding at first, but then it fades, and -- oh -- it’s not gold, but silver. No, not silver. Bronze. 

Yuuri frowns. It’s gold again now. Why can’t it just settle on one color and stay? He looks over at the competitor beside him on the podium to ask if his medal is changing too. 

Victor Nikiforov looks up at him. His expression is flat. He stares at Yuuri without a spark of interest, his blue eyes so cold and pale they almost match his hair. “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks in thickly accented English. “You don’t belong here.”

He’s telling the truth, Yuuri realizes. He doesn’t belong up here at all. He came in sixth at Sochi. _Sixth_. He has to get off the podium -- quick, before someone notices.

He tries to hop off the front, but his blades catch on the side of the step, and he stumbles. Pinwheeling, he falls forward, but his feet never find the carpet. 

He just

keeps

falling.

Hands against his skin and then around him, pulling him down, and Yuuri tumbles straight into Victor’s waiting arms. Unlike the man on the podium, this Victor is smiling. His sparkling eyes are the same crystalline blue as a warm summer sea in a tropical clime, and he rests his forehead against Yuuri’s. Their lips are so near, Yuuri can feel him breathe when he whispers,

“ _Yuuri!_ ”

More than his name, it’s the knocking that rouses Yuuri, blinking in confusion. He’s in bed, legs tangled in his sheets. From across the room, Victor smiles at him again -- the same frozen image of eighteen year-old Victor that Yuuri’s had taped to the wall there for more than a decade. 

“Yuuri, are you awake yet?” The knock again, and now he recognizes his mother’s voice, too cheerful first thing in the morning. 

He groans in answer.

“Oh good,” Hiroko chirps beyond the door. “Up up, now. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

With a sigh, Yuuri lets his head fall back into the pillow. _That dream again._ It’s been months since Sochi, and still Yuuri can’t seem to shake it. He thought by coming home, leaving Celestino and Detroit in his past, he could push his failure at the Grand Prix Final behind him too, but no matter where he goes, he can’t hide from his own memories. 

He levers himself up and sits on the edge of his childhood bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His back hurts, a slight ache between the shoulder blades and a mild throb from his right hip, most likely from twisting into positions he shouldn’t have overnight. He stretches, rolling his shoulders and neck before getting up. His fingers find the cold metal edge of his glasses on the bedside table, and he puts them on, making eye contact with himself in the full length mirror.

He looks a wreck. It’s a feeling that goes beyond the bedhead making his black hair stand up at three different angles or the six extra kilos he’s gained since the Grand Prix Final. Dark bags like bruises hang heavy beneath his eyes, still lingering despite the ridiculous number of hours he’s spent in bed these past weeks. 

What a disaster. No wonder the Victor in his dreams has been judging him so harshly. Yuuri can’t even get a program of off-season rest right. 

“Get it together,” he mutters to his reflection. It’s not the first time he’s said the words, but there’s an edge to them now that hasn’t been there before, and a burn in his chest. He’s still disappointed in himself, but he’s not only that any longer -- he’s _frustrated_. He can do better than this. He will.

Even if he’s missing World’s, even if he never skates competitively again, this isn’t what he wants his life to look like -- moping around his old bedroom all day, barely even seeing his family to thank them for all they’ve done. No. He won’t allow it.

One step at a time. He has to change the pattern he’s fallen into. That starts with getting dressed. 

The leggings Yuuri brought with him from Detroit won’t fit right with his extra weight, but the ones left behind for five years in his dresser here will be too short. That’s enough to make him hesitate, to consider if it would be easier to just stay in pajamas all day again.

It would be _so_ much easier, but he can’t falter on the first step. He chooses comfort over appearances and reaches for the old leggings. They climb well above his ankles as he walks, reaching for his calves, and he looks like a middle-aged American mom getting ready for her first pilates class. 

As embarrassing looks go, though, Yuuri’s had worse. As a child, he once skated to _”Cruella DeVille”_ in a dalmation costume. Not to mention those months in his late teens where he tried to grow his hair out long and bleach it silver to match his idol. It had come out closer to orange than ash, just as Mari had warned him it would. 

His Team Japan jacket still fits perfectly fine, even if he doesn’t deserve to wear it. With that zipped to the neck, Yuuri runs a comb through his hair -- another milestone he’s rarely bothered to achieve since he arrived home -- and, before he can second-guess his appearance in the mirror any further, forces himself to leave the room.

There’s trepidation to his steps even as he puts one foot in front of the other. When he opens his bedroom door, he sticks his head out first. Part of him is expecting to find his family assembled there in the hallway, ready to pounce and pile him with twisting comments or -- just as bad -- praise for his minor victory.

But the hall is empty, aside from the heavenly smell of his mother’s patented _omurice_. A few deep inhales, and Yuuri’s feet propel him out the door even faster than he’d hoped. The family area is empty at the moment. Both his father and sister like to get a jump on straightening up public areas of the onsen before they sit down for breakfast, so when Yuuri slips into the kitchen, it’s only his mother waiting.

She doesn’t see him at first, her back to the door. She’s got her second-favorite apron tied into a symmetrical bow at the back of her waist, a bow Yuuri knows his father ties for her each morning with tender perfection. Her hair, too short for a ponytail, is pushed back from her face with the same faded, pink-striped hairband she’s favored since Yuuri was in junior high. She’s humming an old children’s song about fireflies. 

It takes Yuuri a moment to recognize the melody, but then the words come flooding back to him, and he sings along softly, _In the daytime, hiding amongst the dewy blades of grass, but when it’s night, his lantern burns bright._

His mama whips around at the sound of Yuuri’s voice, a ready smile stretching her face until her cheeks threaten to overtake her eyes. “Oh, good morning! You came out for breakfast today!”

Her happiness stings, picking at a scab in Yuuri’s chest. Not only has he let her down professionally, but all these days at home he’s been hiding away, even knowing his family wants to see him after five long years apart.

“I couldn’t resist. It smells too good to stay away.” His mama huffs at that and swats in his direction with a kitchen towel, but he can tell she likes the compliment by the roses on her cheeks. 

Though Yuuri just woke up, she’s been busy already. In addition to the _omurice_ for the family, he can see two trays already set aside on the counter, one with offerings for the shrine, and another with cucumber treats to put out for the _kappa_. Yuuri smiles at the familiar little details. As a child, he’d been so used to these traditions, but after so long in America, the small gestures toward history make him feel warmer than the heat of the stove.

“Can you set the table?” 

Yuuri doesn’t need to be asked twice. This was one of his chores at breakfast for most of his life. Even in his Detroit apartment with Phichit, Yuuri had sometimes fallen back into the habit when he was preoccupied, laying out the places even if the meal would only be instant ramen or Indian take-out. There’s something soothing about the old, familiar rituals, and that redoubles when it’s combined with the soft scraping and sighing of his mother as she prepares the food.

“Do you have any special plans today?” she asks while he finishes straightening the plates.

He hasn’t actually thought about it, beyond leaving the bedroom, but, “I might go to Minako’s,” emerges from his mouth. It’s another old habit: set the table, then go to Minako’s later. Next after that would be the rink, but Yuuri doesn’t want to visit Ice Castle just yet. _Soon._ Soon, he wants to see Yuuko. He wants to show her some of his new tricks in person and see that smile on her face, that bubble of excitement. He’s twenty-three, not five, but it’s still more satisfying for him to show off for his old friend than anyone else he’s met.

His mother hums and slides a serving of breakfast onto Yuuri’s plate, and he slips into the seat, leaning in so close that the tip of his nose almost brushes the egg, inhaling deeply.

“I’m sure Minako would love to see you.” She’s still smiling as she says it, but there’s a certain quality to it, the hint of a falter, and it makes Yuuri put his chopsticks down.

“My day’s still open,” he offers, “if there’s anything else you need me to do.”

“Oh no, nothing in particular,” she says, waving a towel at him, but Yuuri knows to wait for her to finish. As he expected, she soon continues, “but before you go out, could you check in with Papa? You know how he can be sometimes, with the maintenance.”

Yuuri does know, all too well. His papa has a tendency to think he’s still twenty-three himself when it comes to doing manual labor around the onsen. He’s gotten himself injured a couple times -- thankfully minor injuries -- after slipping on a roof or hitting his hand with a tool instead of the wall. Left to his own devices, he refuses to ask for help, and he treats the suggestion of hiring a professional as a personal insult. He will, however, take help that’s _offered_.

Standing on a ladder with his arms raised above his head for an hour isn’t the workout Yuuri had in mind for his first day outside the bedroom, and he’s tempted to grouse, _Can’t Mari do it? It’s her job._

But wasn’t he just chiding himself for not spending more time with his family?

“Of course,” he tells his mama, who smiles brightly. “I’ll be sure to ask Papa what he needs before I go anywhere.”

“Good boy.” She pats him on the head, ruffling his hair like he’s back in his school smock and preparing to leave for kindergarten. 

Yuuri polishes off his breakfast before his father and sister can make it back inside, thanks his mama for the excellent meal, and then heads out as promised in search of his papa.

He finds Toshiya out in front of the onsen, arms clasped behind his back, tapping a loose stone in the pathway with his foot. “Good morning,” Yuuri says, and his father straightens and turns with a smile at the ready.

“Good morning, Yuuri! It’s good to see you out. Are you going to practice?”

“Practice” means ice, which is still a no, but Yuuri doesn’t want to get into that discussion. “Maybe later,” he says instead -- not a lie. “Breakfast is ready, though. Is there anything I can do to help while you eat?”

Toshiya gestures to the family car, backed into the driveway with its hatch standing open. The trunk and back seat are stacked to the ceiling with boxes of supplies for the house and the onsen, and Yuuri sets his shoulders before nodding. “You go eat,” he says. “I’ve got this.”

As his father disappears inside, Yuuri sets to work unpacking the car. The boxes aren’t too heavy, but they are unwieldy, a variety of shapes and sizes depending on their use, and he has to be careful to keep them from toppling when he stacks them. In the end, he carries the last few in one by one, until there are only two left when the door creaks and Toshiya steps back outside to check.

He clucks, watching Yuuri balance the two boxes on top of each other and stagger toward the door. “What’s this? Two boxes? Isn’t my son an international athlete?”

Yuuri huffs at the well-worn tease. “I can’t help it,” he protests. “All that food Mama stuffed in me -- I can’t move!”

“Really? I thought we had another project, but -- hmmm… I wouldn’t want you to fall through the roof.” Toshiya’s eyes are sparkling, and the expression clears the lines around his mouth. He could pass for ten years younger if not for the streaks of grey in his hair.

Yuuri wants to groan, _Not the roof_ , but it’s impossible to turn his father down when he’s so clearly enjoying their time together. With a resigned sigh, Yuuri drops the last box inside and returns for his next assignment. 

Somehow, neither of them fall through or off of the roof, though it feels entirely too possible. The tiles are cracked and broken in places, verging on rotten in others. While the repair they’re doing is minor, Yuuri can’t help thinking it’s little more than a band-aid on a broken limb.

“Time hasn’t been kind to this old place,” Toshiya says with a groan, patting the roof affectionately. A bit of tile breaks off at the touch, skittering down the side. “Every year, she needs a little more help to keep moving.” 

Yuuri nods and studiously does not mention the way that statement aligns with his father’s body. When they finally make it down the ladder and set their feet back on solid earth, Toshiya puts a hand to his own back, grimacing as he stretches. Catching Yuuri looking, he turns the expression back into a smile in an instant, and Yuuri glances away. 

Maybe Mari is right, difficult as that is to admit. Their parents are aging. They’ll need help, soon. It’s probably past time for Yuuri to consider giving up skating and returning to look after his family business.

It’s not that he doesn’t want that; it’s just that some piece of him always thought he’d do that _with_ someone -- someone other than his sister.

His father taps his shoulder, handing him a towel, and Yuuri wipes the dirt and tile dust from his hands. “Anything else?”

Toshiya hums. “Only one more task for you today, I think. We don’t want to burn you out too soon, right?”

“I can handle it.” He _can_ , although his own back is aching from the work on the roof too, more than he’ll ever admit. Apparently he inherited that trait from his papa as well.

“Nishigori let me borrow a tool a few weeks ago, and I just found it in the storage.” Toshiya chuckles and shakes his head. “I completely forgot we had it. Think you could return it to him?”

“My first errand,” Yuuri jokes, puffing out his chest with faux pride. 

“I think you’re a little late for that one, but they say everyone learns at their own pace.”

It’s nice to see his father smiling so much. Yuuri can’t remember the last time he looked so _genuinely_ happy, not pasting on a smile to cover his concerns during their weekly video calls. Even before Yuuri left home, there had always been worry pulling at the edges of Toshiya’s face. Yuuri’s departure hadn’t done anything to repair that.

 _But I’m home now_ , Yuuri reminds himself, trying to override the whispers. _I can fix it. Today proves it isn’t too late._

The tool Nishigori had loaned them is some type of saw -- some speciality thing that Yuuri doesn’t recognize -- and it’s in pristine condition. Yuuri would expect nothing less of both his father and his school friend. 

He wraps the item up carefully in an old scarf and tucks it into a cloth tote bag for extra cushion, then sets it down by the front door and plops onto the floor to tie his sneakers. He pulls them tight, thinking of other laces, different footwear, and his papa sidles back over.

“Thanks for your help today,” Toshiya says loudly. Then, lowering his voice to a murmur, he adds, “Be sure to take your time along the way, too. Your mama wants to surprise you with one of your favorite lunches -- don’t tell her I told you! -- so give her plenty of time to get everything cooked, right?”

“Right,” Yuuri says, smiling. 

He shoulders the bag and heads out, pausing to wave to Mari, who is smoking out by the road, her shoulders pressed flush to the fence and hips thrust out. She raises the two fingers not gripping her cigarette in salute as Yuuri passes.

It’s a bright spring day, a good day for an errand, and there’s only one problem with Yuuri’s task: he really, _really_ hadn’t wanted to go to Ice Castle yet. 

The Nishigoris’ home is on the other side of town, a longer walk than the rink. It would be no big deal on his bicycle, but when Yuuri checked on it he found the chain rusted through, in need of replacement, and he isn’t comfortable asking to borrow Mari’s much nicer bike. 

She’s never said yes to that request, anyway. Not since he crashed her old one into a fence while running late to school in junior high.

Well. The longer walk is probably good for him. He can ease himself back into regular training and revisit the sights in his hometown along the way. He fishes out his phone and pops in his earbuds, then hits shuffle on his playlist; he strolls out the front entrance of Yu-Topia with the dulcet tones of Mika thumping against his ear drums. 

It’s almost midday on a Saturday, so sleepy old Hasetsu is about as active as it gets. There’s still a chill in the air, but that won’t keep many people inside on a sunny spring day. As he walks across town, Yuuri spots many familiar faces out and about. A few old classmates call to him as he strolls by, and Yuuri answers by raising his tote bag. _Sorry, but I’m busy_ , he indicates silently, though in truth he just can’t remember many of their names. He doesn’t want to get stuck in an awkward chat with someone he thinks is Akiko but is actually Yuki. 

Yuuri’s struck by the remarkable lack of change as he looks at the town around him. The houses and shops are all the same. Nothing new has moved in. No one is razing parks in Hasetsu to build towering apartments or competing to corner a new, thriving market here. A few places from Yuuri’s childhood -- a shoe repair shop, a seamstress, a market -- are closed, shuttered with a wear on their paint that indicates they’ve been gone for years, but nothing new has moved into the space. 

In front of the old market, Yuuri pauses, tracing the words on the fading sign by the door. He had joked with his papa about his first errand, and _this_ is where it was. He bought eggplant, panko, and… some type of candy with the leftover yen. The owners had a daughter in Yuuko’s class. He hadn’t known her well. Now, he wonders where she is. 

The places and paths here are unchanged, but the people aren’t. They’ve aged, all of them, adding lines to their faces and children to their families. He’s shocked to recognize one boy from his class, Sato Touma, outside the fish market gripping the wrists of _two_ young children. As Yuuri watches, a young woman steps forward to join them, her stomach noticeably round.

God. They’re only twenty-three. _Is this what staying in Hasetsu means?_ Yuuri wonders, looking at the young family. Sato-kun raises his head, and Yuuri turns away, walking faster to outrun the conversation. 

Yuuko and her family still live in her husband’s childhood home. Yuuri had never seen much of it growing up, but Hasetsu is small enough that he knows it on sight. It’s a simple, older two-story house with a sturdy fence out front and a few well-kept bushes lining the stone walkway. He arrives to find it quiet, the windows dark. Well, that’s what he expected. With three young, energetic children and a business to manage, Yuuri would have been shocked to find them all huddled at home -- not with Yuuko’s energy levels or Nishigori’s work ethic. 

Since they’re out, Yuuri finds a little alcove just beyond their gate and leaves the saw there, still wrapped in the bag. He can text Yuuko later to let her know where it is if they haven’t found it by then. If he reaches out now, she’ll probably ask him to stop by or demand that he stay put and… Yuuri has a delicious lunch waiting for him at home.

At least, he’ll tell himself lunch is the reason he can’t visit right now, even if he doesn’t believe his own lies.

Raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, Yuuri scans the sky above him for clouds. The weather can be unpredictable this time of year, and he wouldn’t want to get caught in an unexpected storm.

There are a few grey puffs in the distance, but they’re far enough away that they might dissipate before reaching Hasetsu. If he listens to his papa and takes a longer route home, he should still have plenty of time to make it before the weather changes. So, instead of turning back into town, Yuuri makes a sharp right past the Nishigori home and heads for the sea. 

It’s significantly colder on the shoreline than it was in town. The sea wind, laced with sand and salt, slices through the thin insulating layer in Yuuri’s team jacket, and he folds his arms, hugging at himself for protection. 

The sea is restless today. Despite the open sky above, the water itself is steel blue and vicious, curling and rushing toward the sand with abandon. The crashing roar fills Yuuri’s ears, washing him over with a tide of memories. 

These beaches were always his refuge. If Ice Castle was his second home and Minako’s studio his third, then the beaches were Yuuri’s second school: a place where he saw his friends, a place to find new experiences, a place to be a child and grow. 

He toes a furrow in the sand, then dances back and watches as the desperate tide swirls into it, filling the void Yuuri created.

Before he’d gotten really serious about skating as a junior, Yuuri had come out here a lot more often. The colder months had been the time for ice skating, but summer had meant life at the sea. Scanning the shore, he remembers how carefree he’d been in those days, running just out of reach of the waves, playing tag with Yuuko and Nishigori as Vicchan dashed along at their heels. He can perfectly recall the way Mari shook her head when they all came back covered in sand, her sigh before telling them to go get washed up. And then it was another race to be first to reach the showers, pushing and pawing at each other to get access to the fresh water as Vicchan wormed between their legs, biting at the shower spray where it splattered against the ground.

The memory makes him smile, and though it’s tinged with sadness, it’s the first time in months that he’s thought of Vicchan without a heavy cloud of guilt weighing down his guts. There were good times, too. There were many of those.

Yuuri draws a heart in the sand with his toe, and next to it he writes out Vicchan’s name. Within a few hours, the tide will erase the picture, but that’s okay. He’ll remember it. 

He stands back to admire the words. All around him, the sea continues its whispered roar, and the wind keeps tugging at his hair. He considers whether he should take a picture, but no. This is only for him. He has no plans to share it. Down the shoreline, the black-tailed gulls are screaming at something -- a pile of trash, or something else they’ve mistaken for food. 

Yuuri squints, trying to magnify the object on the beach, too far to see clearly even with his glasses on. It’s nothing more than a shapeless lump from here, a blur of white and grey, and Yuuri’s stomach sinks. It was bad enough when he thought it might be _garbage_ someone threw on the beach, but it doesn’t look like trash. Slowly, Yuuri moves closer and tries to steel himself for what it could be.

His biggest concern is that it’s an animal. Gulls aren’t vultures, but they’re omnivores, and they don’t care if their food is rotten, freshly dead, or merely _almost_ dead. It’s early in the season for dolphins still, but seeing that greyish lump, Yuuri can’t help worrying. Looking around, he spots a larger piece of driftwood and picks it up. It’s lighter than he expected, rotted out by the sun and sea, but he doesn’t need to hurt the birds, only scare them.

A few steps into his slow approach, Yuuri sees the lump on the sand stir.

Shouting, he runs down the beach, stick held high. The sand sprays up around his feet, and the gulls leap into the air in alarm, screaming back at him. They’re close enough that he can feel the air displaced by their wings and smell the dead fish on their breath. He ducks, covering his head with one arm in case one of the birds dives. 

After a few tense seconds, the gulls disperse, and Yuuri can lower his arm and raise his head. When he sees what lies at his feet, he stops breathing.

It’s no dolphin, but a man lying face down in the sand. He’s barefoot, and somehow that’s the first thing Yuuri notices. It’s not unusual, being barefoot on a beach, but Yuuri’s eyes catch on his feet, the pale arch of them dotted here and there with bruises.

Otherwise, the man is dressed, but his clothes are in rough shape. There’s a torn logo on his jeans that looks like it _might_ have once been a brand Yuuri recognized, but it’s too battered to make out the words now. The denim is worn thin in patches, ripped in others. The man’s dress shirt is similarly threadbare and spattered with bright-colored stains. It hangs open, the pale pink fabric partially buried in the sand.They’re clothes that might have been nice, once upon a time, but they hang off the man like hand-me-down rags from a larger sibling. 

Yuuri jumps when the man groans, drawing his arms up to protect his head, though the birds have long since fled. His shoulder blades stick out of his back like wings as long-fingered hands cradle his light-colored hair.

 _A foreigner? Here?_ It’s far from the season for tourists, and even then Hasetsu sees few foreigners. The man must be very lost.

“ _Daijoubu_?” Yuuri says softly, shuffling forward. Then, in case he doesn’t speak Japanese, “Are you okay?” The man only cowers, wrapping his arms tighter around his head.

Carefully, Yuuri reaches down to check on him. His fingers graze the sharp bones of the stranger’s shoulders, and suddenly the man jerks upward, whipping around to face him.

Yuuri staggers back, and the ground rises to meet him. He lands with a _thump_ on his backside, but the collision barely stings -- sand is much softer than ice. He gapes at the other man, who stares back with wild blue eyes.

They’re so blue, and they’re so _very_ familiar.

Yuuri knows the man in front of him. He’d know him even without his glasses, even if he couldn’t see at all and could only hear the distinctive rush of blades on ice. There’s no question, because Yuuri’s bedroom is plastered with this face.

It’s not the exact same face from Yuuri’s posters. The man on the beach is thinner, his chin and cheeks prickling with thick stubble, and his silvery hair is shaggy, longer than Yuuri’s idol has worn in years, but still in that moment Yuuri has no doubts. He’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

“Victor?” he gasps.

Victor’s mouth opens, but all that emerges is a raspy gurgle. His expression crumples, and he lunges forward. Yuuri stiffens, flinching away. 

Spindly arms wind around him. Long-nailed fingers cling to his back, digging in with desperation as Victor hugs Yuuri tightly, pinning his arms to his sides. Unable to move or even to process what’s happening, Yuuri can only sit there on the beach as Victor clings to him like a limpet, fingers digging into his flesh. His mind, regressed to childhood, can only shout _Victor is hugging me Victor is hugging me Victor is **touching me**_ on repeat forever.

Victor _is_ touching him. Victor Nikiforov is on the beach only a couple kilometers from Yuuri’s family home, and he’s practically climbing into Yuuri’s lap.

But Victor Nikiforov can’t be on a beach in Kyushu right now. More than that, he can’t be here with his hair hanging so long it sweeps his shoulders, his cheekbones hollow and his collarbones protruding, wearing clothes that seem to have been through a typhoon. 

He can’t be here right now, because Yuuri watched Victor Nikiforov leverage his signature quad flip to take second in the short program during the World Championships in Tokyo last night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few references to Japanese folklore in this chapter, including some creature names you may find unfamiliar. Creatures are sourced from [Yokai.com](http://yokai.com/%22) if you want to check them out. 
> 
> Yuuri also references doppelgangers in this chapter. He's using it in the more general sense of a coincidental look-alike, but it's worth noting that a doppelganger can have a [pretty sinister connotation](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doppelg%C3%A4nger#Mythology).

When Yuuri’s shock finally passes some minutes later, nothing has changed. Victor is still seated on Yuuri’s legs, holding onto him so tight that Yuuri can feel his ribs protest. He closes his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts despite the clamor spreading through his body, the unfamiliar heat and weight of another person on top of him.

The stranger looks like Victor Nikiforov. The stranger _can’t_ be Victor Nikiforov. It’s simply not possible, and so, whoever the poor man might be, he’s only a lost stranger obviously in need of help.

With that thought set, Yuuri opens his eyes once more and begins the careful process of extricating his arms from the other man’s grasp. As he pulls himself free -- first his right arm, then the left -- he can feel the man tremble, pressing his face harder into Yuuri’s collar. A pang of sympathy twinges in Yuuri’s chest. He knows that shaking, unsteady feeling all too well.

Back in Detroit, when Yuuri would get really anxious, sometimes Phichit could talk him down. He always spoke without platitudes, not saying anything of importance but talking aimlessly, never expecting Yuuri to respond. Stuck on the other side of the equation, Yuuri falls back on this.

“I’m sorry, but I have to move my arms right now so I can reach my phone,” he explains, keeping his voice as calm and even as he can. “There are people waiting for me at home. Are you staying somewhere nearby?” After a brief pause that receives no answer, he rambles on. “My name is Katsuki Yuuri. Do you speak Japanese? _Nihongo wa hanasemasu ka?_ Do you speak English?”

A noise -- not a word, but something like a response. English. It’s a start.

Yuuri fishes out his phone and tries to angle it so the stranger can see the screen despite his attempts to hide in Yuuri’s shoulder. “Is there anyone you want me to call?” Another sound, garbled. It’s not words by any definition. “Is there something wrong with your throat? Can you type something?”

The man drops his grip on Yuuri and seizes the phone from him. Holding it with both hands, he stares down at the screen, displaying the time and date in both Japanese and English. With a distressed growl, he drops the phone, and Yuuri catches it before the parts can fill with sand. 

“Sorry if I upset you. I’m only trying to help.” The man sinks back onto his heels, and he folds in on himself like a building listing toward collapse. “Is there anyone you know living here? Do you have anywhere you can go?”

Slowly, the stranger shakes his head. It’s a good sign, in a way. He does understand what Yuuri’s saying, and he can answer a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ 

But the answer itself is alarming.

Nowhere to go, and the man doesn’t seem to understand, much less speak, a word of Japanese. Even if he weren’t a near-perfect duplicate of Yuuri’s idol, there’s no way Yuuri could simply walk away and leave him to fend for himself here. There’s only one solution that he can see, and it makes his stomach feel as if it’s made of lead. What other option is there?

“Look, I live nearby,” Yuuri begins. “My family owns an onsen--”

At the word “onsen”, the stranger emits a burbling sound and flings himself toward Yuuri again. This time, Yuuri manages to get a hand up to stop him before he’s trapped in another hug. 

“Sorry, but I’m not--” Yuuri cuts himself off. He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He presses on, “Would you like to come home with me for now?”

The man nods quickly, silvery hair sweeping his shoulders, and then darts forward once more. This time, instead of embracing Yuuri, he seizes Yuuri’s outstretched hand in both of his. Long nails press into the calluses on Yuuri’s palms, and Yuuri stares into wide, too-familiar blue eyes now alight with expectation. 

_Okay_ , he tells himself. _You can do this._

It might have more impact if he knew exactly what “this” might be.

Climbing to his feet, Yuuri pulls the stranger up from the sand with him. He pauses to brush the sand embedded in his exposed calves away with his free hand, feeling the little red divots in his skin where the grains made a home. Then, he tugs the man in the direction of Yu-Topia.

-

As they walk up the beach toward the onsen, the man never relinquishes his two-handed grip on Yuuri. He clings just as tightly in the tenth minute of their walk as he did in the first, as if he believes Yuuri might slip free and run off if he relaxes at all. 

Though he has no concern that the stranger will get lost with that grip, Yuuri can’t resist looking over every few minutes to check on him. The man is fascinated by his surroundings, as if he had been teleported to Japan or washed up on shore from a wrecked vessel just this morning. He stares in rapt wonder at the kanji on signs along the beach and makes a burbling, high-pitched sound when he catches sight of Hasetsu Castle in the distance. 

The fourth time Yuuri glances over to check on him, the man is staring back. _Those eyes._ Yuuri looks away quickly, feeling his cheeks heat. He really could have sworn... the man _is_ Victor Nikiforov. 

Isn’t he?

Yuuri should call someone and tell them, but who could he possibly call? Phichit, Celestino, Coach Feltsman, Christophe -- they’re all at World’s right now, preparing for the free skate in a few hours. If Yuuri called them, what would he say? “Hello. I know you saw him last night, but -- funny story -- Victor Nikiforov just magically appeared in my backyard.”

He knows what would happen. “Yuuri, are you okay? Don’t be ridiculous; Victor is right here, of course. In fact, would you like to say hello? Victor--!”

Nope. No. No way. He’s not calling anyone.

Victor Nikiforov is at World’s, along with almost everyone else in international figure skating _except_ Yuuri. That the man beside him resembles his idol so strongly is probably the work of Yuuri’s imagination, projecting qualities that don’t exist onto some generic blond foreigner. 

If there _is_ a resemblance, it’s more likely to be pure coincidence. What’s that word, _doppelganger_? Yuuri can recall it coming up at the rink in Detroit once, when a couple of the novice girls decided a boy at the junior training camp looked like Harry Styles. Yuuri hadn’t known the word then, so he’d asked the boy what it meant. His face flushed with embarrassment, he’d had to explain the concept to Yuuri: two people who aren’t related, but who by chance look very alike, similar enough to be siblings. 

That’s probably what this man is, if the resemblance is real at all. He’s simply Victor Nikiforov’s doppelganger.

-

When they reach the onsen, the scent of breaded pork hits Yuuri the moment he opens the door. _Katsudon_. His chest aches. On his first day back in Hasetsu, when he’d arrived home from the train station with Minako, this smell had greeted him, but his mama hasn’t made it for him again in the weeks since. Now, here she is, acting like his leaving the bedroom is a victory.

He slips his shoes off at the door and watches the stranger bend to untie his own shoes, only to pause midway, hanging at the waist. His feet are bare, scratched and bruised. It seems insane that he might not have noticed until just now.

“Yuuri, is that you?” His mama’s voice floats out from the kitchen, and the other man snaps upright only to sway, the weight of him listing into Yuuri’s side. Yuuri catches him at the waist and holds on as for a moment the pale man looks ready to collapse.

Through his tattered shirt, Yuuri can feel the man’s ribs, so prominent he could slot his fingers between them. He’s taller than Yuuri, his shoulders broad, but he feels remarkably light, hollow-boned as a bird. It occurs to Yuuri that he might be able to carry him if he had to. He shakes the thought away.

“I’m home,” he calls back. Glancing at the foreigner, he finds the man is still leaning into his side, but his eyes are alert once again, his head turning quickly from side to side, taking in the traditional decoration of the onsen’s entryway. Yuuri removes his arm from the other man’s waist before adding, “I brought someone with me.”

A flood of delicious smells precede his mother’s entrance. Hiroko dances into the front room in her apron with her hair pulled back by a bandana. There’s a streak of flour decorating her apple cheek and a bowl propped up on her hip, which she’s still stirring. She’s smiling wide, probably expecting to greet Yuuko or Minako-sensei. 

Her warm brown eyes light on the man at Yuuri’s side, and she freezes. Her wooden spoon drops against the side of the bowl with a clatter that dominates the otherwise silent room, and her eyes widen. “Oh, _Yuuri_ ,” she gasps.

That’s when Yuuri knows it isn’t just his imagination. It’s one thing for him to see the resemblance, desperate for his idol’s attention. It’s something entirely different when his mama sees it too.

“I can explain,” he says, even though he can’t explain at all. _God_ , he only wishes he could explain. He’s searching for what to say next, how to even begin, when a noise interrupts them.

It’s a whimper. Yuuri turns to check on his guest and finds him staring, not at Yuuri’s mama, but beyond her, to the kitchens. Another rumbling whine, and this time Yuuri realizes it’s not coming from the man’s throat. His stomach is growling. 

For the first time since they collided on the beach, the stranger releases Yuuri’s hand. He takes a step forward, toward the heavenly smell of Hiroko’s famous katsudon, then hesitates.

Yuuri can see the exact second his mother’s instincts snap into effect at the sight of the worn, hungry man. Something clicks in her, and she straightens up to her full height, little as that may be. Her smile returns, and she bustles over. She doesn’t even pause to bow to the new guest, simply loops her arm around his as if the man is already familiar to her.

“Welcome to Yu-topia,” she sings. “I’m Katsuki Hiroko. You may call me Hiroko-san, okay? That’s good for now. Why don’t you come into the kitchen, and we’ll find you a chair and some food, hm? There’s plenty of extra and you look ready to tip right over.”

It’s a steady stream of welcoming chatter, which is great. It’s also in Japanese, and Yuuri considers if he should translate or at least let his mother know the stranger doesn’t understand her, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The man is following easily enough, taking to Yuuri’s mother as quickly as she has embraced him, and Yuuri can only trail after them into the kitchen, towed in their wake.

“Sit, sit,” Hiroko insists, waving toward the stool she keeps in the kitchen before she turns her back on the guest, busying herself at the counter. Yuuri can instantly see why -- she has four bowls on the counter, each already prepared with pork, egg, and rice for her family. As he watches, she quietly pulls a fifth bowl from the shelf and begins to prepare it, taking a little of everything from each of the other four bowls. She pauses, taking stock of the quantity in each container briefly, then scoops an extra helping for the stranger from the bowl at the end. 

Yuuri says nothing, but his chest aches at the gesture. He knows without asking that the bowl she gave extra from must be her own. That’s who his mother is; she’ll gladly give up something of hers for the happiness of others, even if that means giving food from her own plate to a stranger. 

She plunks the bowl and chopsticks down on the counter in front of their guest with a little flourish. Given how thin and worn the man is, Yuuri fully expects him to tuck in with a vengeance, manners discarded, but he instead the man picks up the chopsticks and -- pauses. He closes his eyes, leans in, and Yuuri watches as a pleased smile stretches his face when he inhales that delicious fragrance. It’s a smile utterly unlike the ones in the posters on Yuuri’s walls, and it makes something flutter in his chest.

 _Then_ the man throws etiquette out the window and shovels the first steaming bite into his mouth.

Despite the mess, Hiroko is smiling. One of the things that makes her happiest is the sight of someone new enjoying her food. However, when she sees Yuuri watching, she takes a step back and turns her back to the guest, her dark eyes entreating Yuuri to follow.

He moves beside her under the guise of helping to put the finishing touches on the rest of the food. “You see it, right?” he asks, sotto voce, though he knows the man can’t understand them. “It’s not just me?”

Hiroko shakes her head. “He looks just like your Victor.” 

Yuuri’s first instinct is to correct her -- _Not **my** Victor, Mama_ \-- but that isn’t the point. “But he can’t be Victor, right?” Yuuri can hear his own voice climbing. He glances back quickly to check, but their guest is still enamored of his lunch. 

He forces himself to quiet, still pleading. “Victor’s in Tokyo. The whole world knows Victor’s in Tokyo right now.”

His mama tilts her head, considering the possibilities. “ _Ikiryo_?” she suggests, but they both shake their heads as soon as the word is out. No. For Yuuri to be pursued by an _ikiryo_ of Victor would mean Victor felt Yuuri had done him a great wrong. The real Victor probably isn’t even aware that Yuuri exists.

So now it seems Yuuri has brought home a random, unknown foreigner, or _possibly_ a mythical creature of some type, and he’s introduced it to his mother. Brilliant. His grandmother would whack him with the bristle end of a broom if she knew.

Whoever their guest is, he’s now abandoned his utensils in favor of swiping his fingers through the bottom of the empty bowl and sucking off the sauce. It certainly makes him seem harmless enough. Even an _oni_ isn’t immune to a little hospitality.

“He can’t communicate much,” Yuuri says by way of apology, though it sounds more like an excuse to his own ears. “He doesn’t seem to understand Japanese at all, and I don’t think he can speak. He understands English, but… that’s about it.” 

Yuuri turns back to his mother, who is watching him with a patience he knows all too well swirling in her eyes. “I don’t know who he really is, but he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. I didn’t know what else I could do, Mama.” 

Though she has to stand on her tip-toe to do it, Hiroko ruffles his hair as if he were a grade schooler bringing a bouquet of wildflowers home. “You did the right thing.” She sounds so sure when she says it -- Yuuri could wish for half that confidence about this, or anything.

His mama tilts her head to the stranger again. His bowl is now empty, and he’s still waiting on the stool where he was placed. As they watch, he yawns, stretching long, too-thin arms high up over his head, then rubs his eyes. 

Hiroko smiles, then hums to herself. “You know, we haven’t used the largest banquet room in ages. It’s a shame to have so much space going unused.” Her smile stretches, cheeks warming with mischief when she adds, “Why don’t you go get Mari, and the two of you can air it out.”

-

Yuuri’s cleaning tables in the public dining area when Minako sweeps into the onsen like a summer storm, hair flying around her and coat drooping off one arm. She’s still in her dancewear, fresh from the studio. 

“Where is he?” She demands, color high in her cheeks as she skids to a stop in front of Yuuri. “Your mother called me.”

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Sawa-san says from a nearby table, patting his lap with a grin that shows all three of his missing teeth and all seventy-eight of his years. “I saved you a seat for dinner.”

“I saved you a seat beneath my car wheels,” Minako replies, rolling her eyes, before turning back to Yuuri. “You heard me. Where are you hiding the handsome foreigner who looks like--?”

“Shhh,” Yuuri cuts her off, stacking dishes with more force than he needs in order to cover their voices. The last thing he needs is rumors flying all over Hasetsu about a mysterious stranger who looks like a celebrity. He steps toward the back of the room, and Minako follows. 

The old men in the dining room have already lost interest, their attention focused on the TV. “He’s sleeping,” Yuuri murmurs. 

Sleeping is an understatement. ‘Comatose’ would be more accurate. While the Katsuki family polished off their reduced servings of katsudon, their guest had worked his way through most of the leftovers Hiroko had on reserve in the fridge. Once his last bowl was empty, he’d begun to sway, and seconds later he was slumped over, pillowing his head on one arm atop the table.

Yuuri had practically carried him to the banquet room, the man’s long arm draped across his shoulders as Yuuri clung tightly to his waist, stumbling their way to the pallet he and Mari had set up earlier. Yuuri had to set him down so, so gently, for fear he’d collapse otherwise. Even as he had lowered him to the floor, the man had reached for him, clinging to Yuuri’s hand and whimpering.

It had taken several long minutes before Yuuri could be certain it was safe to slip free without waking him.

“Which room?” Minako asks, craning her neck.

“The banquet hall-- Hey, wait!” Yuuri snags Minako’s sleeve as she immediately charges off in that direction. “I told you; he’s asleep.”

“Just a little peek,” Minako says, squinting her eyes as she pinches up her thumb and forefinger. “I’ll be quiet, and he won’t even know I was there!”

“You’re _never_ quiet.” Minako tries to pull away again, but still Yuuri hangs on, tightening his grip on her sweater. “Sensei, please. I don’t want to risk waking him up right now. He really… he really needs to sleep.”

He’s not sure how else to explain it, to make himself heard. Years of training and etiquette are pushing him to relent, to let Minako have her little look, but he can’t shake away thoughts of his last moments in the banquet room, kneeling on the mats at the other man’s side, watching the rise and fall of his fragile breaths, their warm hands intertwined on the floor between them.

“If you did see him,” Yuuri says softly, “then I know you’d understand what I mean.”

Minako watches him with the same expression she wore the first time Yuuri executed a _jeté_ correctly in her class, as if he’s done something both unexpected and deeply intriguing. She pulls her arm away, and this time Yuuri lets the fabric slip free. He can’t argue with her again.

“Fine,” she sighs theatrically, flipping her hair back over her shoulder. “I’ll let your mystery man sleep, but you know what we have to do instead, right?”

“Nooooo,” Yuuri says slowly, dubious.

“Free skate!” Minako punches the air. “The final group should start in about ten minutes. I was going to come over to watch with you even before Hiroko-chan called.”

Oh, god. She’s right. With everything happening since the beach, Yuuri had lost track of time. The short program yesterday feels like it happened a week ago now.

He hadn’t wanted to watch tonight, really. He’d been hoping to hide in his room and read, pretending for a bit that the whole figure skating world didn’t exist, but Minako’s idea is a good one. If Yuuri watches, then maybe -- _maybe_ \-- he’ll be able to talk sense into himself. The competition should settle, once and for all, that the man in the banquet room can’t be Victor Nikiforov. 

“... I’ll get the beer,” Yuuri concedes, and Minako lets out a little _whoop_ of delight.

By the time he returns from the kitchen, Minako already has possession of the remote.

“I was _watching that_ ,” Sawa-san whines as Minako dangles the control out of his reach. 

“I’ve been in here for ten minutes, and your eyes haven’t been on that TV screen for even one of them,” Minako counters, expression wry. On the screen behind her, the last group has already finished their warm-up, and the camera zooms in on Cao Bin standing at the boards, nodding as his coach gives him a last few words of encouragement.

Yuuri pops the cap off Minako’s beer before handing it to her, then settles on the floor beside her. The _snap_ of his own bottle opening seems to echo in the quiet before Cao Bin’s music begins, and Yuuri can feel eyes on him. He turns to find Minako watching.

“Are you really going to drink with me?” she asks, incredulous.

Flushing, Yuuri raises the cool green glass bottle to his lips, as if it will hide him. “Yes? I drink.”

“Yes, but not…” _Not often_ , Yuuri hears in the silence. _Not at home, not outside holidays, not with me._

Defiant, he throws his head back as he takes a first sip. The bitter, pale beers Minako prefers have never been Yuuri’s drink of choice, and she’s right that he doesn’t do this often to begin with, but-- “I think I deserve this today.”

On the screen, Cao Bin fails to land his quad toe loop, taking a minor fall, and Minako’s shoulders droop. “That’s it, then; don’t you think? He’ll be retiring after tonight.”

Yuuri makes a noise, trying to sound noncommittal. Cao Bin is the same age as Victor, and there have been retirement rumors swirling for years. Unlike Victor, he’d never managed to master a consistent quad jump. He’s carried through without it, showing strength in performance, but these days it seems the sport is moving on without him.

After the fall, tonight’s performance falters, and Yuuri spends a great deal of the time looking at the table instead of the skate. He empathizes with what Cao Bin must feel now all too well. 

Scores come in, and Yuuri makes a pleased noise at the result. Cao Bin has dropped into third place, but remains stoic in the Kiss and Cry, nodding his thanks to the crowd. It’s bound to be disappointing for him with five more skaters still to come, but the full score list shows Phichit currently sitting in _second_.

A top ten finish for Thailand… Yuuri blinks and finds he’s grinning widely, thinking of how thrilled and proud his friend will be to have earned such high marks on the biggest stage in the world.

Following Cao Bin is Michele Crispino. Before skating, he grasps his sister’s hands tightly, and Minako makes a disgruntled noise at the sight. “It’s hard to believe those two are related,” she grumbles, and Yuuri tries not to choke on his beer.

Michele gives a strong performance before yielding the ice to a surprise last group entry in Kazakhstan’s Otabek Altin. Yuuri gives Minako a sly look as the skater finishes, raising a fist to the ceiling in triumph.

“Please,” Minako says, rolling her eyes, “that one’s too young even for me.”

Only two skaters are left to follow Lee Seung-gil, and Yuuri finds that his beer is empty. He’s perched high on his knees and watches with rapt attention as Seung-gil puts on the performance of his life. Methodical but also elegant, Yuuri often thinks the Korean skater is a true example of how to exemplify the whole package in figure skating. He might be considered a top celebrity of the sport in a world where Victor Nikiforov was never born.

“Do you need a refill?” Minako nods, her eyes glued to the screen as Seung-gil enters the Kiss and Cry. Yuuri doesn’t need to watch this to know the score will be high, and more is coming that he _can’t_ miss.

He stands to find his family gathered behind him and stops, empty beer bottles dangling from his fingers. His parents are seated on the floor at a nearby table, a steaming pot of fresh tea set out in front of them. Behind them, Mari leans up against the dining room wall with her arms folded across her chest.

When Yuuri looks at her, Mari scowls and straightens her headband, looking away. “Don’t look so surprised we’re here,” she grouses, “of course we’re all curious.”

“Get me one too,” his papa says, seeing the empty bottles. Mama tuts at him, but doesn’t raise a fuss, so Yuuri nods. 

As he walks back to the kitchen, the floor seems to glide beneath him, as if he were stepping onto the ice himself. His stomach, too, feels like it’s getting ready to compete. He reaches for the handle on the refrigerator, and his gut does a triple flip. In less than ten minutes, they’ll all be watching to find out _who_ takes the ice last tonight, and Yuuri’s not certain what he wants to see on that screen. Either Victor will enter the rink, smooth and triumphant, revealing Yuuri’s guest as an imposter, or he won’t, and the man in the banquet hall -- the man with the shaking hands and worn face, who looks like he’s crawled out of the underworld and barely lived to tell it -- _that_ man may, very well, be Yuuri’s idol.

Minako shouts, “ _Allez_ , Christophe!” from the next room, and it pulls Yuuri back into reality like he’s a balloon yanked back to the earth. He opens the fridge and pulls out two beers instead of three.

His papa nods his thanks when Yuuri sets one down in front of him, and Minako shoots him a look when she gets the other. His shoulders tense, waiting for another comment on his drinking habits, but it never comes. 

Chris’s program has just started, and Yuuri can tell at a glance that he’s in prime form. He’s come so close to snagging this title from Victor on so many occasions, and Yuuri knows Chris is far from the type who gives up easy. With every defeat, he’ll learn a new lesson and take that home, coming back stronger again and again. 

When Chris bends back into his cantilever, Minako fans herself, then turns to waggle her eyebrows at Hiroko, who hides behind her teacup, giggling. Yuuri makes horrified eye contact with Mari at the back of the room. _This must be what it was like to be in their classes in high school,_ he thinks. 

The free program is a triumph -- not a fall, not a toe out of place. Chris is beaming as he dabs beads of sweat from his brow and waves to the crowd, the arena’s bright lights combining with the body glitter Yuuri knows he uses to make his skin glisten. 

A blur of pink sweeps past the camera, and Yuuri’s gut clenches. He’s overjoyed, suddenly, that he decided to stop drinking. It already feels as if he might be sick. Christophe’s scores flash onto the screen, and the Swiss skater lunges to embrace his coach. 176.38 is a new season’s best for him, and combined with his excellent score in the short program, it rockets him into the lead. 

There’s only one skater left. 

He’s on the ice now.

Yuuri’s fingertips leave imprints on his knees where he clutches at himself as the cameras switch view to the final competitor. The outline on the ice, from a distance, is magenta laced with silver and gold. Some impulse tells Yuuri to close his eyes, but he resists, hugging himself tighter. The camera zooms in on the face from Yuuri’s bedroom posters.

Victor looks… incredible. He’s just as devastating as the first time Yuuri saw him, his skin pink and soft and free of lines. His cheekbones -- prominent, but not gaunt -- highlight eyes of blinding blue and long lashes beneath a fall of short, coiffed silver hair. He skates into his starting position and waits, a figure from a storybook poised at the center of a lake of ice.

The first notes of “Stammi Vicino” echo out over the loudspeaker to an audience gone silent, and in a flutter of graceful movement, Victor begins his play for the gold.

Yuuri frowns. 

He glances back at his family, but they’re not even watching, gathered in quiet conference at the table, presumably discussing what this means for their sleeping guest. When he checks on Minako, he finds her enraptured, staring at the television with starry eyes, the beer bottle held suspended against her lower lip. 

Yuuri follows her eyes back to the screen in time to watch Victor nail his first jump. There’s something off. Yuuri’s frown deepens as he struggles to place what it is. 

He should be _enjoying_ this. He ought to be just as enthralled as Minako-sensei, because that’s what happens _every_ time he watches Victor. It’s been a whole season now, and he’s seen this program over a dozen times, the only differences in small tweaks to the standard jump layout, but he’s never tired of it. Weeks ago, he’d told Phichit that he thought it was Victor’s best program ever. 

“ _He could keep it for another season -- **two** more seasons -- and I swear I’d love every minute of it still._”

And yet, here he is, looking at everything but the TV, distracted despite the fact that the best figure skater on the planet is currently nailing a flawless, record-setting performance.

The music rings out in the quiet room, _”Se potessi vederti dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità…”_ and a strangled noise shatters the silence. 

Yuuri whips around to find the stranger standing in the doorway. He looks whiter than the paper on the shoji screens beside him, his blue eyes blown wide, and his open mouth trembles. He’s staring, fixed, at the screen across the room -- at Victor.

The man’s lips are moving, but no words emerge. As Yuuri watches, tears well up in the stranger’s eyes, gathering until they spill without a sound, tracing glistening trails down his cheeks. 

Yuuri has seen skaters fall and fall badly through the years. He’s seen limbs broken and careers ended in a heartbeat. He’s seen the way a person shatters on the inside when their heart is broken by first love.

He’s never seen a pain like this.

On instinct, Yuuri slams the power button on the remote control. With a soft beep, the screen turns to black, and the man in the doorway collapses like the last tether tying him upright was severed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly early update this week because I both have Friend Zoom plans and intend to watch US Nationals tonight. Otherwise, I might forget to upload.

It’s dark when Yuuri opens his eyes, and he gropes for his phone beneath his pillow to check the time. His first thought is that his internal clock got thrown off again, that somehow he’s slipped back into Detroit time despite the weeks he’s now spent in Japan, but the glowing screen tells him it’s a little past six-thirty.

There’s also a message notification from Phichit. _Congrats to you on your boy winning his fifth world title_ , it says. Yuuri opens it to clear the reminder, but leaves it on read. He’s not ready to deal with the residual queasy feeling he gets thinking about the competition last night. He only knows that Victor had won, falling just short of beating his own world record from earlier in the season. He hadn’t been able to watch the scores come in himself, being too busy carrying his guest back to the banquet room for the second time that day.

His guest… Yuuri should probably check on him. He’d been conscious again when Yuuri left him to go to bed last night, slipping out of the room silently as his mother tutted over the stranger and tried to nurse him with fruit and tea, but the way he’d collapsed had been terrifying. Yuuri never realized before that people meant it literally when saying their hearts stopped from fear.

He sits up in bed and locates his glasses on the bedside table. Even with them on, he can only see the faint outline of furniture in the darkness, and he pulls back the curtain on the window over his bed. It’s grey outside, heavy storm clouds coating the horizon and shuttering the sun. He can see the bright outline of where light should be through the haze, but the sky promises a dull, rainy sort of day. 

The floor still carries a chill from the early spring air when his bare feet touch down. He dresses, more for warmth than propriety, even though it means digging some of the clothes he brought from Detroit out of the laundry hamper. He sniffs the shirt before putting it on. It smells like dirty clothes. With any luck, no one will be close enough to smell him.

Yuuri ventures out into a house wrapped in dead silence. The hallways echo with the creak of his step as he makes his way downstairs. He knows his mama will be up already, and that he can find her in the kitchens if he goes looking, but he aims to check on the banquet room first.

He never makes it that far. His stranger is standing alone in the common area, like a ghost from a bygone era drifting through the spaces where once he thrived. He’s barefoot, aimlessly pacing the front room, and his borrowed jinbei droops off one shoulder, flashing several centimeters of pale skin that seems to glow in the cloud-filtered morning darkness. 

Turning, he sees Yuuri in the doorway, and his spine straightens. A smile stretches his mouth wide, and a burbling noise escapes his parted lips. 

Yuuri finds himself smiling in return. “Good morning to you too. I hope you’re feeling better.” The man nods and trots across the room to join Yuuri, already reaching for his hand again. 

It’s strange, holding hands with someone he barely knows. Yuuri’s romantic history is pretty sparse, filled with a fair number of first dates that never got a sequel, and so the list of people he’s ever held hands with is… short. Shorter, even, than the list of people he’s kissed. 

He pushes aside the discomfort that crawls up his spine at the sudden touch, though, and squeezes the hand in his own. “Are you done passing out now?” he teases. “You’re heavy for someone so thin, you know.” He tilts his head, eyeing the other man up and down in consideration before adding, “I think your bones must weigh a lot because you’re so tall.”

The man sticks out his lower lip, an exaggerated pout, and Yuuri chuckles. He stares up into the other man’s eyes, and his gut sinks.

Dark circles are nesting beneath blue eyes shot through with red. Yuuri had expected him to look _better_ after a long night of rest in the banquet room, but if anything the other man looks even worse than when Yuuri found him. He’d passed out after watching Victor skate, but had he slept at all? 

Yuuri fumbles for something to say that might help, but he’s interrupted when his mama’s head pops out of the kitchen. She’s smiling, glasses perched on top of her head to push the hair back from her face. 

“ _Ohayo_ , Yuuri, Vicchan,” she calls out, then adds in halting English, “Are you ready for breakfast now?”

_Vicchan?_

The other man nods, tugging Yuuri’s hand as he strains toward the kitchen door. For a flash, he _does_ remind Yuuri of his little dog, pulling at his lead and eager to reach the food bowl. The memory makes Yuuri’s face ache, and he shoos it away. 

The kitchen table is already set out for them with perfectly sliced _tamagoyaki_ , small bowls of rice, and fresh fruit. Their guest makes a pleased sound and releases Yuuri’s hand to reach for his chopsticks, not even waiting to sit down before he begins to tuck in. 

Yuuri takes a seat, rubbing his newly freed hand against his thigh. He can still feel the echo of the other man’s skin against his. 

Hiroko joins them a moment later with the tea kettle, and Yuuri meets her eyes across the table. “Vicchan?” he asks, and watches her cheeks pink. 

She ducks her head, eyes on the cup as she pours their guest tea. “I hope you don’t mind,” she says quietly. “He was already awake when I got up, and I needed to call him _something_.” She looks up, not at Yuuri but at the other man, who is eating with fervor, making little pleased noises with each bite of something new. “He does look so much like your Victor, and with our other Vicchan being gone…”

 _I miss him too_ , Yuuri wants to say. It sits on the tip of his tongue, but the words sting when he rolls them over the roof of his mouth. He’s not allowed to miss Vicchan. He’s the one who left.

“No, you’re right,” he says instead. “It does make sense. Sorry. It just startled me at first. I’ll keep trying to find out what his name is, but I think Vicchan is a good name for him right now.” 

As Yuuri takes his first bite of _tamagoyaki_ , Vicchan shovels the last of his rice into his mouth. In the bright light of the kitchen, the heavy bags beneath his eyes only stand out more, and Yuuri’s thoughts circle back to something else his mother said. 

“Vicchan was up before you were?”

“Yes,” Hiroko says over the sound of running water as she prepares new plates for the rest of the family. “He was already in the common room when I came in.”

Yuuri may have been gone for years, but his mother’s routine has never changed. She still gets up before the sun does each day. Yuuri chews his lip, watching Vicchan suck fruit juice from his fingers, and worries.

He picks at his food while the other man inhales his own servings and turns wide puppy dog eyes toward Yuuri’s plate. Relenting, Yuuri nudges it closer and allows him to steal bites of egg while his mother’s back is turned. 

When Hiroko returns from the sink to find their dishes empty, she puffs with pride. Taking their plates up, she pauses to ruffle Yuuri’s hair -- and then reaches for the other man at the table as well. “I’m so happy you enjoy my food, Vicchan.”

The new Vicchan beams right back at her, leaning into her hand on his head, and another section of wall in Yuuri’s heart caves in. If it makes everyone else so happy, the man can be “Vicchan” forever for all Yuuri cares.

Not that he’ll stop trying to learn his real name, but Vicchan will work fine.

Yuuri takes his time finishing his tea, listening to the comforting sound of his mother working in the kitchen, humming little snatches of old songs as she slices cucumbers and prepares the daily offerings for the shrine. He can feel the buzz of many thoughts inside his skull, clamoring for his attention yet drowning each other out. It makes him squirm. 

Draining his last few room temperature sips, Yuuri stands and pushes in his chair. He always thinks better when he’s moving, and Vicchan’s arrival derailed his plans for yesterday. He has a lot of thinking to catch up on now. “Thank you for breakfast, Mama. I think I’ll go to Minako’s for a bit.”

“Have fun,” Hiroko sings. “And try not to wake her if you can. You know she was probably up late last night.”

“Okay, Mama.” 

At the front door, Yuuri bends to retrieve his shoes and catches sight of a second pair of feet behind his own. He straightens and turns to find Vicchan standing bare centimeters away, watching.

“You stay here, Vicchan. We don’t have any shoes that will fit you.” 

Vicchan frowns and makes a faint grumbling noise. 

“I’m sorry. I won’t stay gone too long.” Picking his shoes up, Yuuri reaches for the door, but Vicchan’s hand catches his elbow before it can open. 

He tugs at Yuuri’s arm, then looks down. Raising one foot, he wiggles his toes. Yuuri sighs. 

The shoe thing wasn’t exactly a lie. They do have some slippers and shower shoes that would fit Vicchan, and while those aren’t suitable for running in, he _could_ accompany Yuuri to Minako’s studio in them. But, to reach the studio, they first have to pass through town, and that means people Yuuri knows, people he grew up with, seeing Vicchan. There’s no question they’d notice a fair-haired foreigner in their midst well outside the tourist season, and Yuuri knows his hometown all too well. People talk.

Not to mention if he ran into an old friend, like Yuuko or Nishirigori, someone who wouldn’t just notice Vicchan, but might also recognize who Yuuri’s new guest resembles. 

There’s no question: Vicchan can’t come into town. “I’m sorry,” Yuuri says again, but when he turns toward the door, Vicchan’s grip on his arm tightens, and the displeased grumble from before becomes, unmistakably, a whine.

He knows when he looks over, the puppy dog eyes will be back. _God_. Yuuri already caved to giving up half his breakfast. Is he really going to roll over so easily and give Vicchan his way in everything?

Despite himself, he looks over and meets Vicchan’s startling blue eyes. Yes. Yes, he’s going to roll over _exactly_ this easily.

“Okay,” Yuuri sighs. “Okay, we’ll both stay in.”

-

It’s one thing to decide to stay home. It’s something else entirely to decide what to do with that time.

Yesterday morning -- _was that really only yesterday?_ \-- Yuuri had been kept busy helping his father with errands and repairs. Now, the most urgent work is done, and Yuuri can’t exactly expect Vicchan to help him with cleaning bathrooms or folding towels, much less climbing on the roof to repair cracked tiles. 

On a more typical day off, Yuuri would spend time at home playing video games or call up Phichit to hear him ramble about the latest gossip at the Detroit rink, but he can’t imagine himself having a casual conversation with Phichit while Vicchan is in the room. 

He _does_ attempt the game idea. His old Wii is still in the family living area, hooked up to the TV because his parents have an off and on relationship with Wii Sports, so he digs his copy of _Super Smash Bros. Brawl_ out of a storage bin in his room and passes Vicchan the spare remote. 

Vicchan selects Jigglypuff. Yuuri has him knocked out for the first time in under two minutes. There’s still a lot of day left ahead of them.

Running out of ideas that don’t involve the town or dangerous acrobatics, Yuuri sinks into thought and finds himself staring at Vicchan, who is sitting on the floor, head tilted back to gaze up at the ceiling. 

It’s not Vicchan’s throat Yuuri finds himself staring at, or the shadow of his clavicle where it protrudes beneath his skin, but the unguarded slope of pale shoulder revealed where Vicchan’s poorly-fitted jinbei droops. If Yuuri were a few steps closer, he’d be able to see if the other man freckled or not.

 _He needs clean clothes_ , Yuuri thinks, and then, _Oh_.

Vicchan needs clean clothes. He also needs clean hair, among other things. Of course. Yuuri’s never had to take care of another person before, but if he had to make a checklist, that would certainly be on it: food, water, sleep, and now hygiene. The next thing Vicchan needs is a bath.

Lucky for both of them, Yuuri’s family runs an onsen.

He doesn’t even need to ask. When Yuuri gets up, Vicchan is on his feet, ready to follow, and so Yuuri leads him over to the men’s bathing area. When they step into the shower room, it’s the first time Yuuri sees Vicchan hesitate.

It’s still early morning and a weekday, so no one else is in the showers. Vicchan pauses at the threshold, his head turning slowly as he takes in the mirrored walls around them. Beneath each handheld showerhead is a stool, a bucket, and a small selection of soaps and shampoos, but there’s little else in the room. 

Once, when Yuuri was in junior high, his parents had talked about installing small dividers between the showers, catering to an increasing desire for privacy among foreigners in particular, but the project had never gotten off the ground. Now, Yuuri finds himself wondering if it’s the lack of privacy making Vicchan uncomfortable or just the unfamiliar surroundings.

Then Vicchan reaches for his hand again. “I’ll stay,” Yuuri tells him quickly, though he pulls back from the contact. “I could use a soak too. I’ll be right beside you the whole time.” 

He gestures to the wall and Vicchan approaches, choosing a shower at the very center of the room and beginning to untie his borrowed clothing. As he promised, Yuuri selects the next shower over, closer to the door.

As he removes his own clothes, Yuuri tries to keep his eyes forward, fixed on a hairline crack in the mirror where it bolts onto the wood-paneled wall. He’s never been one to get flustered around nudity, aside from a couple awkward, developing years in junior high, but this is different. It feels like every muscle in his body is stiff, the resistance of all of them needed to keep himself from glancing over, trying to get a glimpse of his idol. 

He might as well be fourteen again, feeling small and ungainly as a toddler side by side with the much older boys in the dressing area at his first international competition and trying not to look, not to compare. 

_This is silly,_ he reminds himself, head down as he removes the last of his clothing. _He isn’t Victor. You saw Victor last night -- everyone did. He’s only someone who looks like Victor, and he may need your help._

The showerhead beside him sputters to life, Vicchan gasps, and Yuuri looks over.

A shiver runs through the other man that Yuuri knows all too well, and he smiles. The water always comes on cold for the first few seconds. When Yuuri turns on his own shower, he takes a step back to avoid that first sharp spike of ice, then watches as Vicchan turns and reaches to hold the water over his head, sluicing through his hair and over his skin.

It’s impossible to ignore how thin Vicchan is. That’s the first thing that stands out. With his arm over his head, his ribs are outlined in sharp relief. Spine, clavicle, hipbone -- he could be a model for Yuuri’s university anatomy class. That’s worrying, but it could be worse. What Yuuri _doesn’t_ see are bruises or pained winces as Vicchan moves to wash. His calves are well-defined, and his thighs round out in the front, still clinging to well-built muscle. The rest of him…

Yuuri looks away. Filling the bucket on the floor, he dumps it over his own head, squeezing his eyes shut. _Is that what Victor would look like?_ his mind whispers, and Yuuri quickly spins the temperature on the showerhead back to cold. That’s the last thing he needs to be thinking about. He rinses quickly and grabs a towel, then steps back to face the other wall while waiting for Vicchan to finish his wash.

 _Vicchan_... If he’s not Victor, then he must have some other name. Yuuri’s tried asking in both English and Japanese already, but maybe the key is some other language, something Yuuri’s never learned more than ‘hello’ or ‘thank you’ in. He picks up his phone from atop his folded clothes and opens a translation app.

When he hears the water pipes creak, shutting off, Yuuri takes a breath and counts to ten before turning around. Vicchan has a tiny white towel now, but he’s wrapped it around his hair instead of his waist. Quickly, Yuuri snags a spare from the pile by the door and tosses it over, then transfers attention back to his phone, waiting for the heat in his cheeks to die down.

“Uhh… como se llama?” Yuuri reads off the screen, then looks up to check. Vicchan tilts his head like a confused puppy. Maybe not Spanish, then. “This way,” he says in English, gesturing toward the hot springs, and Vicchan’s smile returns.

He understands English, that much is certain, but Yuuri has to wonder if he truly can’t speak at all, or if he simply can’t speak that language. As he leads the way to the baths, he tries the same question again in German (nothing), sign language (who knew there were so many different versions in the world?), and Italian (blank stare), but when they reach the springs itself, Vicchan brightens immensely. 

His towels fall away, forgotten, and Yuuri averts his eyes again as the other man practically leaps into the pool. He takes his own time getting ready, folding the towels to the side before removing his own to join them and trying his best to ignore the soft sighs of pleasure rising up with the steam from the hot springs. 

After growing up in an onsen, then as an athlete, Yuuri isn’t used to being flustered by the presence of other naked men, but he can’t seem to separate Vicchan in his head from his long-standing fascination with the man that Vicchan resembles. It makes him feel dirty -- and more than a little guilty. Vicchan needs Yuuri’s _help_ , not his… 

Whatever this is.

Vicchan has melted into the bath now, arms on the rocky rim and head tilted back, exposing the patchy, untended parts of his sparse facial hair. Yuuri slips into the springs beside him, within arm’s reach if needed. The steam rising off the water softens the other man’s appearance, and with his eyes closed in bliss, he exudes a sort of delicate beauty. The faint lines on his brow wash away.

Glancing down at his phone, Yuuri licks his lips and swallows. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” he tries. Vicchan opens one eye and smiles, but the only sound that emerges from his lips is another pleasant purring rumble. French, then, too?

Victor speaks French, of course. Yuuri’s known that factoid for ages. It was the third language Victor had picked up, so he’s mentioned it in interviews since he was a teenager, and judging from comments Chris has made, he’s fluent there as well. 

Yuuri’s been avoiding it a little, afraid to learn the answer, but he’s running low on a list of common languages. He’ll have to try Russian and hope he doesn’t mangle the words too badly in the process. To be certain, he reads the phrase and pronunciation three times, mouthing the words silently to get a feel for them. 

Then, wetting his lips, he speaks softly, “Как вас зовут?” 

He’s not sure what he expects -- for Vicchan to leap from the pool, secrets unspooling from his mouth in an instant, as if Yuuri’s poor Russian was the only key that could fit a lock in his heart? But what he gets, instead, is silence. Not even a burble or a sigh.

When Yuuri looks up from the phone, he finds Vicchan’s head is tilted back again, eyes closed and pink lips parted -- asleep.

-

He winds up letting Vicchan sleep for nearly an hour, watching him closely to ensure his head never slips below the water line. Yuuri’s fingers and toes are spongy and creased, his face red from so long in the hot water, when the first customers finally arrive. 

The men are chatting among themselves about their grandchildren, oblivious to the others in the onsen, and Vicchan jerks awake at the sound of voices, blinking and whipping his head back and forth as if desperately searching for something. When Yuuri puts a hand on his shoulder, Vicchan stills.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri murmurs. “You were asleep.”

Vicchan frowns, rubbing wet hands over his face to clear his eyes, then yawns. He glances over at Ando-san and his friends as they slip into the pool and waves to them, but his shoulders are tense beneath Yuuri’s fingers.

“Are you ready to go inside?” 

Vicchan nods, so Yuuri steps out, then reaches back to help Vicchan out of the hot springs.

“Don’t want to hang around with us old guys, hm?” Ando-san teases. 

“Sorry, sir,” Yuuri says with a bow, “but I need to get some work done. Please call if you need anything.” He passes Vicchan a towel before grabbing his own.

Yuuri is zipping up his jacket a few minutes later when he feels a tug on his sleeve. The sensation is becoming familiar. He turns to Vicchan, who runs a hand over his own chin. It takes Yuuri a minute to recognize the gesture, not until Vicchan’s hand moves against the grain and the prickly little hairs on his cheek stand at attention.

“Oh! You want to shave?” Vicchan nods eagerly. It makes sense -- right after a hot bath would be the perfect time. The only problem is the question of a razor. 

Yuuri’s very much a mixed bag when it comes to genes. He takes after each of his parents to some extent, sometimes in ways he loves, and other times less so. One of the less bothersome ways in which he takes after his papa happens to be an absolute incompetence when it comes to growing hair anywhere aside from his head. Yuuri’s never minded that much, except for when he wanted to look older in his late teen years, but it does present a problem now. They don’t exactly have a lot of spare shaving equipment lying around the house.

It takes him longer to find a razor and fresh shaving cream than it took for him to get dressed. At last, he uncovers a usable bar of shaving soap on a dusty shelf in the bathroom. For the razor, he ends up stealing one of Mari’s spares. It’s bright pink. He doesn’t think Vicchan will mind.

Leading the other man to the bathroom, Yuuri leaves him to it. Lunch time is approaching, and Yuuri’s stomach is grumbling. Something about being in the water has always made him hungry, so he decides to pop into the kitchen and see if his mama has plans, secretly hoping the answer will be no so he can feast on snacks or run to the ramen shop.

The common dining area is about as busy as it usually gets for lunch, a fair number of older men and a few of their wives, seated around the room with drinks and food, teasing one another about their taste in television. Mari is in the thick of all of it, a tray on her arm, alternating taking orders with clearing tables. 

When she spots Yuuri, her eyes laser in on his from across the room. “Oh! You’re still alive. Did your good-looking foreigner abandon you so soon?”

“I’m just checking on Mama,” Yuuri says, waving to the neighbors he recognizes in the crowd. “Is she in the kitchen?”

“Where else would she be?” Mari props the tray on her cocked hip. There’s a less-teasing edge creeping into her tone despite the customers in the room. “She’s trying to make all the orders by herself, just like I’m trying to _take_ the orders by myself.”

“Vicchan needs me right now. Maybe in a little while I can help--”

“Too late.” Mari snaps. “Lunch will be over by then probably. If you could pay attention to your family instead of your _crush_ then maybe--”

“Mari!” 

A hush falls over the dining room. Everyone in earshot is well-trained to recognize that tone of voice. They were all someone’s child once, after all.

Hiroko is standing in the kitchen doorway, her apron splattered with food, wringing a dish towel in her hands. Her face is flushed. “Mari, don’t be rude to your baby brother. You know better than to act like this in the middle of lunch.”

“Yes, Mama,” Mari says, ducking her head. She bends to pick up an empty glass from a nearby table.

“And Yuuri, I know you’re busy with Vicchan right now, but when you get the chance…” She trails off, her gaze drifting to something over Yuuri’s shoulder. Her eyes widen, and the white dish towel flutters to the floor, forgotten. 

Mari looks over and mutters, “ _Holy shit_ ,” and their mother doesn’t even attempt to correct her language.

Yuuri turns, following their line of sight, and finds Vicchan poised in the doorway, one hand braced on the wall. His newly-shaven cheeks are still glistening with moisture, and he seems to shine. Not only his facial hair is gone, but his choppy, shoulder-length locks from before now hang in neatly-combed strands, curving into a fashionable bob beneath his chin.

With his cheekbones on full display and his dead ends trimmed off, he looks more like a fashion model preparing to walk the runway than anyone who should step foot in Yuuri’s family business.

Yuuri hears one of the customers mutter, “If that’s the good-looking foreigner, I’d slack off work to hang out with him too.”

It’s a sentiment Yuuri can certainly appreciate, but it’s missing the most obvious issue, the thing that had Yuuri’s mama frozen and his sister gasping. With his scruffy beard gone, there’s truly no denying that their Vicchan is a dead ringer for the man in all of Yuuri’s posters.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE ARE TWO CHAPTERS THIS WEEK
> 
> Chapter 4 is a bit on the short side, and also I don't want to be posting well into April, so I dropped both 4 and 5 this week. Enjoy!

Dinner has been on the table for at least twenty minutes, and no one has touched their food. No one, that is, except for Vicchan, who has already demolished most of his meal and started trying to snag bites from Yuuri’s bowl. Yuuri bats his invading chopsticks away. The look Vicchan gives him in response is utterly wounded, but for once Yuuri has no pity -- it’s not as if the man hasn’t been getting three squares plus frequent snacks since he arrived. Even still, Hiroko tuts and gets up to serve him a second helping from the cooling dishes on the stove, ruffling his silvery hair as she sets the bowl back on the table.

The other members of the Katsuki family talk around their guest, conferring in hushed tones despite the knowledge that Vicchan doesn’t understand a word of Japanese. Their own food is completely cold now, forgotten. 

Yuuri picks the breading off his chicken absently as Mari talks. “Victor or Not-Victor, someone has to be looking for him. We need to find a way to let them know he’s here.”

“So what are you suggesting,” Yuuri fires back. “I put up signs on the telephone poles -- _Found: Lost Foreigner. Reward_? He’s not a stray dog.” 

“Obviously not,” Hiroko interjects. Vicchan looks up from his bowl at her tone, and she smiles at him, reaching across the table to pat his hand. “But if he has some other family, they must be worried.”

Mari and Yuuri make eye contact across the table when their mama says “ _other_ family.” It’s couldn’t be more clear where her heart lies. 

“Of course,” Yuuri says. “But I don’t really know where else to start.”

Mari picks up a piece of chicken and pops it in her mouth -- her first bite of the meal. “Start with the Victor option, then. You’re both skaters. You know the same people. There must be someone you can call and ask. If they think you’re crazy--” she shrugs “--they probably already thought that anyway.” 

“I do have a few numbers,” Yuuri admits. “I’ve thought about it, but I’m not sure who to call.” 

Christophe Giacometti would be the most obvious choice. It’s well-known in the international skating community that he and Victor are close friends in addition to being rivals for many years. Yuuri does have Chris’ number, too, but he’s reluctant to mention that to his family over dinner. The only reason he has Chris saved in his phone is that the other man attempted to _booty call_ him a few years ago when he was seeded to Skate America. 

“Besides, what would I say? _Hello. Have you seen Victor lately?_ Everyone was at World’s this week. They all saw Victor.” On top of that, the event was the last this season and only just ended. It’s possible many of the skaters are still in Tokyo, taking a few days to relax before flying home. 

“Do you know Victor’s coach, or one of his rinkmates?”

Yuuri shakes his head. Celestino would have Coach Feltsman’s information, but if Yuuri calls Ciao-Ciao, his first question will be, “When are you coming back?” That relationship is awkward right now, since Yuuri so recently packed his bags and left his coach hanging. These aren’t the best circumstances to reopen communication.

“I have a thought,” Toshiya interjects. Yuuri and Mari both turn, surprised at his sudden participation. “Call me crazy, but why don’t you ask the man himself what he wants?” He nods at Vicchan, who is gulping down the last of his tea. “Surely he deserves a say in this.”

Oh. Right. Yuuri turns to the man at his side and switches to English. “Vicchan, do you want me to call Coach Feltsman?”

Yuuri asks so quickly, he hasn’t even stopped to think of what he wants the answer to be, but Vicchan’s response is crystal clear. His blue eyes go wide, food forgotten as he reaches over to tug Yuuri’s sleeve. He shakes his head, silver hair swishing as he turns, whining deep in his chest at the idea.

“Okay. Okay.” Yuuri reaches back to Vicchan, stilling his hands and then touching his shoulder, his chest, trying to soothe the distress. “I won’t call. I promise.”

Whether it’s the words or contact, something Yuuri does gets through. Vicchan relaxes, leaning into Yuuri’s hands. As a peace offering, Yuuri nudges his bowl a little closer to him on the table, but Vicchan seems to have forgotten about food. He’s looking away now, staring off through the walls at something no one else can see, a slight frown furrowing his forehead.

Yuuri pulls his bowl back and -- finally -- begins to eat his dinner. It’s cold, but still delicious. As his family moves back to more ordinary topics, Yuuri keeps his eyes on Vicchan and his far-off stare. 

It’s remarkable, when he sits back and thinks about it. Vicchan is a grown man. He’s a full head taller than Yuuri, and clearly capable of doing things for himself -- showering alone, shaving correctly, and cutting his own hair, among the list. Despite this, with a single wide-eyed glance, he so quickly transforms into someone Yuuri wants to gather up, to protect. 

He’s never felt like this about anyone before.

The remainder of dinner passes in relative silence, attention finally returned to their cold food. They’ve always been a family of late eaters -- dinner must be served to guests in the dining room first -- and so it’s after ten o’clock by the time the meal is gone and Yuuri, Mari, and Vicchan have washed, dried, and stored the final dishes.

Drying his hands on a towel, Yuuri says his goodnights to his family and his guest, then heads down the hall to his room. 

“Don’t stay up too late,” his mama calls after him, and Yuuri makes an affirmative noise. He doesn’t _plan_ to stay up late, but he does plan to play some games on his phone in bed before going to sleep and, well, sometimes time gets away from him when he keeps leveling up and earning energy bonuses.

As he reaches his door, he can still hear the _flap-flap-flap_ of borrowed house shoes on the floor behind him. It’s no surprise when he turns and finds Vicchan trailing in his wake. 

“You can stay up with Mari if you want,” Yuuri says, “but I’m going to bed.” He reaches for the door and feels Vicchan shift closer, fingertips plucking at the loose waist of Yuuri’s jacket. 

Yuuri sighs and repeats, turning to face Vicchan this time so there can’t be any misunderstanding. “I’m going to bed now. You can stay up or go sleep in the banquet room like last night. Do you need me to show you where it is again?”

Whining, Vicchan steps closer. His hand clenches on Yuuri’s jacket as if it’s his guiding star. He rubs at his eyes with his free hand and yawns, and Yuuri once again notices the purpling circles and stark lines beneath those blue eyes. 

He looks exhausted, and he was up so early -- how much sleep had he even gotten last night? The banquet room has been a storeroom for years now, and Mari had joked as they cleaned it that a _nando baba_ or _keukegen_ may have already taken up residence. Yuuri rolled his eyes when she mentioned it, figuring the comments for an echo of the same teasing she’d given him about _yokai_ and _oni_ as a kid, but… No one has ever spent the night in the banquet room before as far as Yuuri knows. Maybe there _is_ some sinister reason Vicchan can’t rest in there.

“Oh, all right,” Yuuri relents, shoulders slumping. “You can come inside.” The moment he agrees, Vicchan’s face brightens, his smile returning, and Yuuri has to turn away to hide how quickly his own mouth mirrors it. 

He starts to slide open the door. The wall inside glints, highlights of silver and gold in the moonlight pouring through his window. _Victor._ Yuuri slams the door shut again, feeling suddenly cold.

Vicchan’s inquisitive hum at his back is white noise over the pounding in Yuuri’s ears. The stupid posters! Seeing Victor on the tiny dining room TV last night for only a few minutes had caused Vicchan to faint. What would happen if he walked into a room plastered in Victor’s face?

“Wait right here,” Yuuri says quickly. He opens the door again, barely wide enough for his butt to squeeze through when he twists sideways, and slips inside. 

If there were a sporting event that involved removing posters from a wall without damaging them, Yuuri would have his gold medal already. He hits the bedroom like a tornado, sucking every photo of Victor’s face up in his wake, from the Junior World’s commemorative podium poster to the Parisian modeling campaign Victor posed for last year. He stuffs the stack onto a shelf in his closet and steps out into the center of the room to double check that he got them all.

It’s good. Yuuri folds his arms and nods to himself, satisfied with his own work. Through the door, he can hear the floors complaining as Vicchan fidgets just outside. Fearing that Vicchan might scratch at the door like his namesake if left there too long, Yuuri sweeps the door open and steps back to let him in.

He expects Vicchan to rush into the space, but instead he steps in cautiously, eyes bright as he looks around at the walls and furniture, inspecting Yuuri’s domain. Circling the tiny room, his hands linger here or there, curious sounds emerging from his throat as he closely inspects the photos on Yuuri’s desk, his old novice and junior medals in the closet, and the synthesizer leaning up against the wall.

Yuuri clears his throat as Vicchan approaches the bed, recapturing his attention. “You can sit at the desk or on the floor and watch me play games, I guess, but I’m going to go to bed soon, and--” he gestures to his twin bed, unsure how he even wants to finish that sentence.

Vicchan tilts his head, examining the bed where Yuuri’s old snowflake-print sheets peek out over the top of the comforter. He raises a finger to his lips as he pauses to consider the problem, and Yuuri claps a hand over his own mouth.

He didn’t think it was possible for Vicchan to look even more like Victor, but that gesture? Yuuri’s seen it in a hundred interviews, whenever a reporter asked a challenging question… or whenever Victor simply wanted to stall for time as Yakov jumped in to handle an inappropriate request.

While Yuuri is in the depths of a flashback, Vicchan suddenly drops his hand and strides back out of the room. 

Oh. Yuuri had expected to have to fight to shove Vicchan out of his room at bedtime. To have him leave on his own is oddly disappointing. 

Shrugging to the photo of Puppy-Vicchan displayed on his desk, Yuuri changes from leggings into boxers and takes off his jacket. He turns to hang his team jacket back up in his closet, and when he turns back, Vicchan is there. So is the entire pallet Yuuri and Mari had prepared for the banquet room, folded like a big, sloppy taco and dragging on the floor in Vicchan’s wake.

It flops into the room, and Yuuri has to scramble to hop onto his bed, out of the way. The mattress fills up every inch of floor space in his bedroom, from the edge of his wooden bed frame to the legs on his desk.

Before Yuuri can question it, Vicchan plops himself down into the middle of the pallet and splays out, spreadeagled. His borrowed jinbei strains, pulling open at the center of his chest, and he grins up at the ceiling, smug and proud.

 _Someday,_ Yuuri thinks, _I’m going to have to learn to say no to him._ But it doesn’t seem that day is coming any time soon.

Accepting his fate, he settles in under the blankets, wriggling in to get fully entombed, and swipes open a fighting game on his phone. At first, he can hear Vicchan on occasion, the sheets on his pallet rustling as he rolls around, but soon Yuuri is too engrossed in the life or death battles of tiny, pixelated creatures on his screen to notice anything else.

It’s dark outside, and peaceful. The house settles in for the night, and the only background to Yuuri’s world is the soft, familiar scraping of the tree outside his window rustling in the night wind. 

He taps his screen furiously to redirect his characters, even as he feels his eyes aching and growing heavy. He yawns, closing them for a beat, and when he blinks them back open, his entire fighting force is dead. Damn.

Slipping his phone onto the charging cord under his pillow, Yuuri glances over to check on Vicchan.

The other man is sprawled in much the same position he’d first laid down in, but now his face is turned to the side, toward Yuuri. His eyes are closed, silver lashes fanned along his cheeks and intermingling with loose strands of hair. His lips are softly parted, and they move with his breath as he sleeps, as if he’s whispering secrets into the pillow he can’t speak aloud by daylight.

Face warm and smiling, Yuuri reaches up to turn out the lamp and settles onto his side, facing the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE ARE TWO CHAPTERS THIS WEEK
> 
> Chapter 4 is a bit on the short side, and also I don't want to be posting well into April, so I dropped both 4 and 5 this week. Enjoy!

Yuuri Katsuki has a secret. 

In interviews, he’s always had certain ways he speaks about himself. He loves video games and dogs. He enjoys classical music and takes dance classes regularly. He prefers to sleep in, and-- “I’m lazy, really,” he would say, laughing at himself, running a hand through his hair sheepishly. “If Coach didn’t make me practice, I’d probably sleep until noon and eat chips in bed all day.” 

But anyone who actually spends time with him has seen the truth: Yuuri is the opposite of lazy. In Detroit, his schedule included a morning run, hours of off-ice training, and several more hours at the rink. All that was on top of at least three college classes each term _and_ a twice-a-week dance class absolutely no one was requiring him to take. Yuuri’s idea of lazy could put a med student to shame.

And staying inside Yu-Topia day in and day out is _killing_ him.

He tries, those first few days with Vicchan around, to get out on his own in the morning, but Vicchan always wakes first. He offers to do more construction for his papa, or run more errands, but Vicchan always tries to follow, even climbing onto the roof, shaking the ladder in Yuuri’s wake. 

They order clothes online, and shoes, and ship them express so that Vicchan can go outside if he needs to, looking more presentable in fresh jeans and proper footwear, but every time Yuuri walks to the front door and finds Vicchan right on his heels, he hesitates.

Vicchan’s appearance is unmistakable, and while he’s fine around the onsen, cavorting with the old men who care more about baseball and horse racing than figure skaters, the idea of him stepping into town at Yuuri’s side is terrifying. The more people see him, the more likely it becomes that one of them will say something, and then--

Then what? Yuuri doesn’t actually know what might happen, and that makes him even more nervous.

So instead, they stay home, and for fresh air, they walk on the beach. 

It’s still cold enough for a light jacket, though spring will arrive in earnest soon, and the golden sand is chilly where it finds gaps in Yuuri’s shoes, slipping into the tops and under his socks. Vicchan, beside him, never seems bothered by the sand or the salty air. He has his head up, smiling, hands in his pockets as he watches Yuuri’s gestures.

Yuuri’s throat aches. That’s been happening a lot, lately, and he knows why -- it’s all the _talking_. He’s doing it again now, and it only makes the sting worse, but he can’t seem to stop. There’s something about Vicchan that makes him so easy to talk to.

“When I think about it,” Yuuri hears himself saying, “I’m not sure I ever really wanted to move to Detroit. It all gets so jumbled in my head -- what I wanted, what other people expected, what I felt I should do…”

He’s never told anyone this part before, not even Phichit or Yuuko, and that chills him for a moment. He stops. Vicchan stops too, still looking at him with serene expectation. It should probably worry Yuuri more that the only person he feels he can talk to is one who can’t talk back, but he’s no idiot; he knows that’s part of the appeal. Vicchan can’t judge him, can’t tease him for having bad taste in music or laugh when Yuuri admits his fears. 

Yuuri finds a bit of sea wall nearby and takes a seat, knowing Vicchan will mirror his movement. “I was so scared, the first few months, and so alone. My roommate then was a much older boy. My English wasn’t as good, and neither was his. We didn’t really get along much, but I thought I was doing the right thing. Or, at least, I thought it _had_ to be right, because I’d spent too much time and money for it not to be.”

He stares out at the sea and the black-tailed gulls, wheeling so high above that they’re barely specks on the horizon. “And then I finally had my first competition with Celestino, at the Autumn Classic that season, and I came in eighth. Eighth, out of only twelve men competing.” He shakes his head. When he thinks about it, Yuuri can still feel the jarring of his bones as his blades hit the ice, both feet down, and then the backwards fall that felt like slow motion. 

Celestino called it a “good save” afterward. It was good only in that Yuuri had prevented his skull from cracking on the ice.

A warm, callused hand comes to rest on Yuuri’s own. He looks down at the place where they overlap, shades of skin side by side in complementary colors on his knee, then up at Vicchan. Outside, beneath the sky and beside the sea, Vicchan’s eyes are more grey than blue, and this close, Yuuri thinks he can see flecks of gold in the iris. 

“ _There_ you are,” a familiar voice snaps nearby. Yuuri whips around to find Mari standing, hands on her hips. Behind her headband, her hair sticks up at all angles, reacting to the damp sea air. Her eyes fall to Yuuri and Vicchan’s joined hands, and Yuuri pulls away.

In an echo of a dozen past encounters in which Mari caught her brother doing something embarrassing, they both pretend it didn’t happen.

“I need you to run to the market for a few things,” Mari says, eyes now fixed on a spot on the sea wall. “Mama is running low on mirin and eggs, and she wants some melon for breakfast tomorrow too.”

“You know I can’t go right now.” Yuuri nods toward Vicchan. “He’s not going to let me leave alone.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to take him with you.” Yuuri tenses, readying to object, but Mari folds her arms across her apron. Her mouth twists into a crooked line. “Most people here don’t follow skating, and they’ve all needed new glasses ever since Dr. Yamamoto closed his shop when _I_ was in high school. You’re being overprotective.”

On the surface, Yuuri knows she’s right, but… He hums, unwilling to agree, but not interested in fighting her either.

Huffing, Mari kicks sand at him like they’re grade school kids fighting over a bag of sweets. Her eyes are narrowed, fingers gripping her own arms and leaving indents. She looks like Minako when she stands like this, and Yuuri straightens his spine on instinct. 

“Listen, it’s one thing if you’re still skating, if you’re just biding time here until you leave again. You know I’ve never once complained about supporting your dreams, and I won’t start now.” Her arms drop, along with her face, as she continues, “but if you’re here, then you need to _be here_. That means taking on more responsibility. That means helping out with the onsen and learning the business. If that doesn’t work for you, then maybe… maybe you should go back to the US already.”

Yuuri stares at her, expecting a joke or maybe an apology, but Mari doesn’t look away, mouth set and eyes burning. “Fine,” Yuuri spits, standing. “Fine. Come on, Vicchan. Let’s go.”

“Where are you going?” Mari calls. Yuuri has stormed off a few steps already, unable to stomp as his feet sink into the sand. Vicchan, behind him, scrambles silently to keep up.

“Well, since I can’t book a flight back to the US right now, I guess I’m going inside to get Vicchan some sunglasses. Then, we’re going to the store.”

Mari looks away. “Don’t tell Mama what I said,” she mutters. 

Yuuri can’t make that promise out loud, though he knows he won’t tell anyway.

-

Vicchan, outfitted with a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses from the onsen’s lost and found bin, looks exactly like Victor Nikiforov in a pair of ridiculous, oversized sunglasses. In an attempt to improve the disguise, Yuuri also steals a wide-brimmed hat from among Mari’s things and pretends it isn’t petty revenge for her comments. With the hat concealing most of his hair and face, Vicchan looks more like he could be any awkward foreign tourist.

They walk into town side by side, and Yuuri pretends not to notice the way cars on the road beside them slow down to stare. Even if Vicchan wasn’t dressed up in a ridiculous manner, foreigners in Hasetsu are a rare sight, and Vicchan’s height alone would be enough to make him stand out in the little town. 

As they pass through the neighborhood, Yuuri falls back into the habit of narrating their silence, pointing out the old houses around them with comments like, “My old rinkmate Rika-chan lived there for a few years,” or, “See the gap between the bars on that fence? My dog slipped through them once and then wouldn’t come back out. The leash got all wound up and tangled, and the owner came out and found me crying.” 

They reach the left-swerving road that leads out to the Ice Castle, and Yuuri sees its familiar flat roof in the distance, so he points that out to Vicchan too. “That’s my old rink, Ice Castle Hasetsu. I learned to skate there when I was little.”

Vicchan comes to a screeching halt at that, eyes brightening. He grabs Yuuri’s sleeve again, tugging, a symphony of excited noises spilling from his parted lips as he backs up toward that road, trying to pull Yuuri out toward the rink.

 _Why did I even mention it?_ Yuuri groans internally. The rink is the last place Vicchan should be seen. He’d get noticed there for sure. Plus, Yuuri still hasn’t actually gone over to see Yuuko and Nishigori face to face since he arrived. Turning up with Vicchan unannounced would be the worst kind of surprise.

Unsure how to explain, Yuuri tries distraction instead. “If we stop here,” he says slyly, “then you won’t get to see the _ninja castle_.”

As he expected, Vicchan freezes at the words, eyes widening. Yuuri covers his mouth with one hand to hide his laughter. “Do you want to see? You get the best view from the bridge.”

Just like that, Vicchan is tearing off toward the bridge ahead, towing a grinning Yuuri along behind him. 

Vicchan bounces on his toes as Yuuri tells him the legends of Hasetsu castle. He tugs Yuuri’s sleeve again before turning his back to the distant castle, then holds his thumb and finger up in a clear sign for “camera.” Shaking his head, Yuuri reaches into his pocket for his phone, stepping back to take Vicchan’s picture. Before he can get the photo lined up, Vicchan grabs him by the sleeve again, yanking Yuuri over with a disgruntled noise, until Yuuri is at his side, back pressed against the stone barrier on the side of the bridge. 

“You don’t want me in this,” Yuuri complains, but Vicchan only grips his jacket tighter. Too quickly, Yuuri sighs and gives in.

He tries not to look at the screen as he takes the shot, focusing on where he knows the camera lens is instead, but once his thumb hits the button, Vicchan reaches out to snatch the phone away, admiring the picture.

It’s a ridiculous image -- Vicchan in his huge, floppy hat, bug-eyed glasses covering half his face, and next to him Yuuri, looking so distant and solemn -- but the sight of it pings something in Yuuri’s memory.

_”A commemorative photo? Sure!”_

Yuuri looks over at Vicchan, who is back to admiring the castle. _Do you remember?_ he wants to ask. _Do you even realize that was me? Is it really you?_ A wave of longing rises up and washes through him. If only he could hear Vicchan’s voice, then maybe…

What would it change?

“Come on,” he says instead, nodding down the bridge. “We still have a lot of walking to get to the store.”

For the rest of their walk, Yuuri continues the tour. He shows Vicchan the path he used to take to get to school and points out the house where Yuuko grew up. As they approach the shops, more walkers fill the sidewalks, and Yuuri nods to a few familiar neighbors. They nod back, smiling, and Yuuri pretends not to notice the stares Vicchan is getting. He’d stare too.

Hayashi-san’s shop looks the same as it has Yuuri’s entire life, and his father’s life before that. It’s a painfully traditional relic from the 1960’s, updated only insofar as the sign out front gets a new coat of paint once a decade. Inside, the aisles are narrow, and items stack up to the ceiling in places, the highest gathering dust.

The old owner himself peers at Yuuri from behind the counter, his eyes narrow behind thick, wire-framed glasses. He nods slowly, but otherwise doesn’t move. His gnarled hands rest on either side of the cash register, holding him up. Pinned to the wall over his shoulder is a sun-faded photo of his wife and daughter, both of whom have long since passed away.

Hayashi-san is alone with his shop. When he passes, the store will fade with him, leaving behind only the chain _conbini_ for groceries.

As soon as they walk through the door, Vicchan’s attention shifts from Yuuri to the market shelves. Because the store is so small, every inch of space is packed with produce and packaged goods, and Vicchan looks like a small child walking into his first amusement park. He goes straight to the first shelf he sees and grabs a package, turning it over in his hands to examine everything. After a moment with that, he puts it back and picks up the product next to it.

He’s not hurting anything, and a quick glance back at Hayashi-san shows the old man half asleep on a chair behind his post, so Yuuri leaves Vicchan to his new game and goes to grab a basket.

Finding a couple cartons of eggs is easy enough. A quick glance tells him the shells are intact, and he tucks that away in the basket. Mirin, too, is simple. The store only carries one brand in the large size his mother needs for the onsen, so Yuuri grabs that to add to his stash, then takes a second bottle too, just in case. 

Melon, however, is more time consuming. Vicchan is on the second aisle of the store by now, squatting to see the lowest shelves and running a hand over crinkling, bright colored packages, so Yuuri turns his full attention to the fruit. 

His mama had long ago taught him the careful consideration required for choosing the sweetest melon: first, the weight of it in his palms. Next, he knocks on the side, listening for a hollow echo. Finally, he lifts it to his nose. 

The scent isn’t strong enough. He discards that first melon on the bin, then picks up the next.

He has his nose pressed to the fourth melon, inhaling a strong, almost cloying scent, when he hears a soft, “Katsuki-senpai? Is that you?”

Yuuri turns, still cradling the green melon in his palms. The speaker is a girl about his age. Her long, dark hair is highlighted and slightly curled, and her eyes are closer to amber than brown. At first, Yuuri doesn’t recognize her, not until he notices her stance -- straight back, feet under her hips, one arm up so her hand grasps the strap of her purse. Her posture screams _dancer_ , and the pieces click together.

“Ah! Sana-chan!” The girl blushes at Yuuri’s recognition, confirming his hunch. “Wow. You look different.” Sana ducks her head at that, hiding her face behind her hair in a familiar gesture.

The Sana-chan Yuuri grew up with never looked so glamorous. She was forever in braids, buns, and ponytails. A couple years behind Yuuri in school, he had known her in passing only because she also took lessons at Minako’s, so he’d only ever seen her in dance costumes or school uniforms. 

“Last time you saw me I was sixteen,” Sana says with a shy smile. “I’m twenty-one now -- of course I look different!”

True. But so little has changed in Hasetsu these past five years, Yuuri had almost forgotten the schoolmates he didn’t see would have grown older as well. 

“How are your parents?” Sana asks.

“Good, thank you. Just the same as ever. And yours?”

“Happy to have me visit. Nagging me as soon as I walk in the door.” They both roll their eyes at the same time, then laugh at the twin gesture.

When their chuckles die down, Sana-chan is still there, looking at Yuuri, and he shifts on his feet under the weight of her attention. She seems to expect more from him. What else can he say? It’s not as if they were friends.

“Do you still dance?” he asks, reaching for the one thing he knows about her. 

Sana shakes her head. “I did try for a while. After graduation, I moved to Tokyo. I went to a bunch of open auditions at first, but…” She laughs again, but this one lacks the ring her voice had before. “It turns out there are a lot of girls in Tokyo who would like to be dancers. Many of them are much better than I was.”

“I’m sorry.” 

Sana shrugs. “It’s for the best. I have a good job now instead, like my parents wanted. I’m still in the city, but I can afford to come back and see them sometimes. It makes them happy, so that part’s good.” She ducks her head again, smiling up at Yuuri through her fringe. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“I’m not sure,” Yuuri admits. It’s one of those things he’s trying not to think about. The words leave his lips, and he bundles them back up, shoves those thoughts into a box alongside the Grand Prix Final and his dog’s death. He’ll unpack it later. 

Sana must wear very good mascara, because her eyelashes look ridiculously long when she tilts her head that way. “You still skate, right?” She steps closer, the shopping basket in her hand now bumping against Yuuri’s, and tucks a curl back behind her ear. “When you left, I thought you were so brave, pursuing your dream with such passion and determination.”

Fire alarms are screaming in Yuuri’s head, warning him now of Sana’s sudden proximity. He stammers, feeling his face heat at the compliment and unsure of how to respond. He’s still holding a whole melon, for god’s sake.

Something warm descends over Yuuri’s shoulders, and he staggers slightly under the weight. He twists his head to find Vicchan’s face centimeters from his own. Vicchan’s arm is draped over him, his long-fingered hand pressing indents into the flesh of Yuuri’s bicep. He’s smiling, but behind his ridiculous glasses, Yuuri can see eyes like ice.

“Oh.” Sana rocks back on her heels, glossy lips parted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were-- That is, I--”

Vicchan grumbles high in his throat, then knocks his head against Yuuri’s. The weight of him almost sends Yuuri stumbling again.

“What? Are you bored already?” Vicchan grumbles again, pressing his face into Yuuri’s shoulder. “You know, there are better ways to let me know you’re tired than interrupting,” Yuuri chides him.

He passes Vicchan the melon he’d been awkwardly holding to give the man something to do, then glances up at the clock behind the counter. It’s been almost two hours since they left the onsen already, between the distraction of showing Vicchan the sights and catching up with Sana. 

Yuuri groans. “How did it get so late already? Mari-neechan is going to kill me. Sorry, Sana-chan.”

Sana smiles too brightly and waves off Yuuri’s apology. “It’s fine. I have my own shopping I need to get to. I understand.”

Yuuri pays Hayashi-san in cash and turns back to Sana as he waits for the old man to bag the items. “It was nice to see you.”

“Yes. Let’s keep in touch,” she says, with the flat tone of someone who would rather walk on broken glass barefoot. Turning to Vicchan, she plasters on a wide smile again and switches to English. “It was nice to meet you…” 

Something flickers on Sana’s face, her eyes dropping to the shaggy silver strands peeking out from beneath Vicchan’s ridiculous hat. “Wait,” she murmurs in Japanese, “have we met before?”

The paper grocery bags rustle loudly as Yuuri scoops them up from the counter and thrusts one into Vicchan’s arms. “Sorry again! We really have to go!” 

Before Sana can say anything else, Yuuri loops an arm around Vicchan’s waist and hustles them both out of the store. If, perhaps, he forgets to take that arm back for the first few blocks as they walk back to the onsen, Vicchan isn’t complaining about it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter seems like a good time to remind folks of a thing I warned about early on: some of the skating aspects in the story are deliberately unrealistic. That comes up more in later chapters, but I'm disclaiming now.
> 
> One interesting wrinkle of writing this fic in 2020 (I started it in February!) is that when the first round of covid lockdowns hit, we got an idea of what it actually looks like when a top skater returns to the ice after weeks or months without rink access. In particular, I was really intrigued by Roman Sadovsky's vlog about his first day back on the ice after lockdown, which you can find [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=knZotrQ9zMU). Roman is a Canadian national champion with (I believe) two quads, so it really provided some insight to see how much he struggled on day one.
> 
> After that video came out, I came and adjusted some of the skating aspects in the story at points where Yuuri is just returning to the rink after weeks away, but I'm probably still being a like "Sports Anime" silly with the skill levels, for drama reasons ;)

Those first few days turn out to be only the beginning of an ongoing pattern. Each morning, Yuuri wakes up in the tiny bed in his old room, rolls onto his side, and finds Vicchan lying on the floor, those blue eyes already open, staring up at Yuuri. 

They eat breakfast together in the kitchen, and Yuuri’s mama dotes on her new, adopted family member even more than her own son. After that meal, most of the day is spent helping out around the onsen: folding laundry with Mari, helping Toshiya with repairs, or running errands into town for Hiroko. They walk on the beach for exercise, and Yuuri lets the sun on his skin fool him into thinking that summer will come soon. He starts to tan early this year, but Vicchan remains pale aside from a sprinkling of freckles on his nose and cheeks.

Yu-Topia’s regulars are happy to have a couple extra hands to help at meal times, often complaining to Yuuri that his sister is “too sour,” though Yuuri knows that only means she won’t let them get away with bad behavior. The guests take to Vicchan as easily as the Katsukis have. For a foreigner, it seems Vicchan has a lot of Japanese uncles and grandfathers.

It should be an idyllic existence, except for one more factor which also remains constant: Yuuri can’t leave the house without Vicchan on his heels.

Every time he tries to grab his skate bag or ballet shoes and run for the door, Vicchan is there, reaching for his own shoes or for Yuuri’s arm, making distressed noises at the suggestion that Yuuri might leave him alone, despite a house full of other people. Walks on the beach or into town are pleasant, but after nearly a week of Vicchan’s constant regard, Yuuri’s skin is beginning to itch, excess energy he can’t shake crawling through his limbs.

On the seventh day since Vicchan’s arrival, Yuuri wakes in darkness.

He’d been bored and restless the night before, unable to settle on anything to do. Even games had lost their appeal. Rather than fight it, he’d given up and gone straight to sleep after dinner. Now, he’s up even before the sun.

Once his eyes have adjusted, showing him the chiaroscuro details of his closet and desk in the pitch black room, he rolls onto his side.

Vicchan is spread out on his pallet on the floor. His blankets have gotten shoved aside in the night, and his borrowed jinbei is gaping at the chest again. In the dark, his pale skin and hair are luminous. His face is turned toward Yuuri, relaxed in sleep, and he looks heartbreakingly similar to a boy Yuuri once saw on TV -- a boy with his silver hair still long, his eyes closed in peaceful concentration as he skated his way to a junior world championship gold.

Yuuri’s chest is still aching at that memory when a voice in his head pipes up, pointing out what this situation means.

Vicchan is still asleep. That means that Yuuri might be able to leave, to tiptoe out into the hall and outside, _by himself_ , for the first time in a week. It’s so early, he could make it back before anyone notices he’s gone. He’d be back in time for breakfast, and Vicchan might be upset if he wakes up before then, but-- The rest of Yuuri’s family can take care of Vicchan for a little while, right? 

After all, Vicchan only clings to Yuuri because Yuuri was the one who found him on the beach. On a practical level, Vicchan would be far better off staying close to Hiroko.

At least, that’s what Yuuri convinces himself.

He starts by slowly pushing the blankets off his body, afraid even the rustle of the fabric might startle Vicchan awake. Once his legs are free, he turns around before sliding his feet off the edge of the bed, aiming for a narrow strip of floor above Vicchan’s head -- one of the few gaps not occupied by either furniture or the pallet. Yuuri creeps toward the door, pausing when he hears a stir from the floor -- Vicchan rolling from his back onto his side.

When there’s no further noise or movement, Yuuri releases the held breath that was making his chest ache and reaches for the door handle. There, too, he takes his time, millimeter by millimeter widening the gap, until it’s open just enough for him to fit through sideways. He slips out into the hallway and sighs.

Still wearing the t-shirt and boxers he spent the night in, he pokes his head into the common areas to check for lurkers. The lights are on in the kitchen, and he can hear his mother’s morning hum in harmony with the whistling kettle.

A few days before, he’d almost made it out the front door with a bag full of equipment. Now, he dashes across the room on bare feet to reclaim that bag, then vanishes into the nearest bathroom with it over his shoulder. Quick and silent, he strips off his pajamas and pulls the workout gear from his bag on instead, then stuffs what he was wearing before into the duffel to unload later. 

Back in the front room, Yuuri can hear his Mama singing now, strains of an old melody he can recall his grandmother singing to him as a child. He pauses by the door, considering whether he should stop to say good morning. The longer he takes to leave, the greater the chance Vicchan will wake up before Yuuri can make it outside. 

He resists the temptation of a warm morning in the kitchen and forces himself to grab his shoes. If he doesn’t go now, he’ll really fall into disrepair. Slipping on his sneakers, he pauses again by the door. His equipment bag has his ballet shoes in it already, but there, atop the shoe shelf, his skates are waiting.

Yuuri grabs them, shoves them in the unzipped duffel, and flees out the door, using the momentum to continue straight into a jog. 

It’s still early enough in spring that the air at sunrise has a crisp bite of winter to it. Yuuri’s breath escapes his lips in little clouds as he runs, hoping for the exercise to heat his blood and stave off the chill since he’s wearing only his thin team jacket. 

With each fall of his foot on the silent street, the duffel slung across his body jostles against his hip, and the weight of his skates presses into him. He may have a bruise there later, but it’s far from the first time skating has hurt him. _Thump thump thump_ go his sneakers, and his neglected figure skates beat against him like fists on a drum.

They’re calling him, summoning him to the rink, and Yuuri feels his heart beat harder in response. He hasn’t skated since he arrived back home. To be completely honest, he’s been avoiding it for weeks. But now… now he hears the pounding of his heart over the silent morning and realizes -- he’s _excited_.

Beneath his thin jacket, he’s already beginning to sweat, and his skin prickles, but whether that’s from the cold or the thrill of knowing he’s going to skate, he can’t tell.

Although Yuuri danced before he learned to skate, it’s been over a decade now since the ice became his main outlet. The rink has always been a place where Yuuri could gather up everything he had in a bowl -- joys, sorrows, worries, hopes -- and then let it spill free. Now, Yuuri can hear his own need for that outlet singing through his blood, calling him home. 

He doesn’t bother with wondering what’s changed or why this need for the ice has overtaken him so suddenly. He knows the answer.

_Vicchan._

Huffing, Yuuri increases his pace to a sprint, dashing across the bridge and down the road toward Ice Castle. He slows beside a grassy outcropping, then pauses. Tucked away between the buildings here is an ancient _yorishiro_. Yuuri’s never been able to get a straight answer on how old the tree is or on who decorates it now, but as always the golden-green rope tied around its wide trunk is clean and solid. 

The breeze ruffles the high branches and sends a chill scurrying under the collar of Yuuri’s jacket. He shivers, and the old shrine seems to shiver too.

 _I don’t know if there’s anything here that can hear me,_ Yuuri wishes, _but if there is someone listening, please know that I need all the good fortune I can get right now._ He bows, staying down for a breath or two, but if anything otherworldly heard his pleas, he gets no acknowledgement beyond another cold wind. 

Rising, he picks up his jog once more. He doesn’t stop again until he arrives at the front doors of Ice Castle Hasetsu.

There’s a familiar face awaiting him outside the rink, or rather a familiar ponytail. Yuuko still has her key in the lock, but Yuuri recognizes her in an instant. 

“Good morning,” she calls out in a pleasant tone as he runs up, still focused on the aging lock and her wide ring of jangling keys. “If you’re coming to skate, I’m afraid we don’t open until--”

“Yuuko.”

She stops at the sound of her name, then whirls around. “Yuuri?” Her mouth is open in an O, brown eyes wide. When she spots him, she hops a little on her toes, and Yuuri can’t help but smile. Five years apart, and she’s had a whole family now, but Yuuko is still eager and energetic as a schoolgirl.

“Hi. It’s good to see you,” Yuuri says, realizing he means it even more than he expected to.

“You too.” Clasping her hands behind her back, Yuuko leans toward him with a sly look and a curious tilt to her head. “You know, I heard a rumor you were back in town and staying at Yu-topia again… and something about a guest staying with you?”

Her face is sweet as sugar, innocent as a child. Yuuri knows her better than that. He blushes, looking away. “It’s no one you know. I’m sorry I didn’t make it by sooner, but things have been hectic and -- well, I’ll tell you later?” He gives the rink doors a hopeful look, and Yuuko sighs.

“You only want me for my ice. Okay.” Turning, she finishes massaging the lock, and the automatic doors slide open. “I have some work to do in the back to get ready to open, but I’ll run the zamboni first.”

“As if that’s a chore,” Yuuri teases. When they were teenagers, driving the zamboni had been Nishigori’s part-time job at the rink. It was during that phase that Yuuko had started to really notice the other boy, and for years after Yuuri had joked that it was the irresistible allure of the ice resurfacer that drew her in. 

Now, Yuuko scoffs and turns her back on him, complete with a ponytail flip, but she can’t turn away fast enough to hide the pink on her cheeks.

Inching his duffel up higher on his shoulder, Yuuri walks the familiar route to the locker room. There’s a glass cabinet up against one wall along the way, and Yuuri pauses to look inside. Among faded ribbons and time-worn trophies, there’s a wooden-framed photo that Yuuko’s family donated a few years ago. In it, Yuuri and Yuuko stand side by side on the ice, both in their skates and still in costume from a local competition. Yuuko, beaming, holds up a certificate that reads _Third Place, Junior Ladies_. Yuuri, younger and still a head shorter than her, is wide-eyed and serious as he holds up a tiny medal--gold.

It had been Yuuri’s first real win, even if it was only a local competition. That had seemed huge at the time, life-changing, but he hadn’t known exactly how. 

After that, Yuuko had stopped competing. 

Yuuri taps on the glass, saying farewell to his chubby childhood self, and goes back to the locker room to stow his bag, fill his water bottle, and lace on his skates. 

When he returns to the rink, Yuuko is making her last pass with the zamboni, and she waves to him from the driver’s seat. Leaning on the boards, Yuuri waves back.

Like most of Hasetsu, Ice Castle feels frozen in time, yet not as frozen as Yuuri wishes it would be. The banners on the walls listing past skaters and events are fading and gathering dust. At the end of a long line of names and images is his own face, and Yuuri raises a hand to block it from his view. _That_ change to the Ice Castle he could certainly do without. 

But so much of the sight here is familiar. Here, he’d put on skates for the first time and taken his first lessons. Here, he’d had his first small competitive event -- the only boy competing in his age group, so he won by default. He’d hated that. He never wanted to win only because no one else showed up. 

Here, he’d seen Victor for the first time, glued to an old tube television in the lobby at Yuuko’s side, breath catching in his throat at the sight of most beautiful creature he’d ever seen. Victor hadn’t seemed like a real person then. He was grace, light, something beyond human -- something _better_ than a boy.

He’d made _Yuuri_ want to be better, too.

“Yuuri!” Yuuko’s call pulls him back from his thoughts. She’s across the ice now, waving, and the zamboni is packed away. The fresh ice gleams, the wet surface tinged pink from the morning light spilling through the windows. 

Smiling, Yuuri sets his phone face down on the boards beside his water bottle, takes off his skate guards, and opens the gate.

From his first step, that first little glide onto the smooth surface of fresh ice, Yuuri feels his muscles settle back into memory. A few weeks is nothing to years of daily practice, and slipping back into his strokes is as easy as falling into bed at night. Yuuri lets his eyes fall closed briefly. With no music playing on the rink speakers, there’s no sound but the crush and slice of his blades, a song in and of itself. He lets it overwhelm him, keeping his stroke simple as he regains his footing and reveling in the sensation of being back where he belongs.

 _Did I really think I could quit this?_ he asks himself as he turns, skating backward round the curve at the end. It’s the beginning of a sequence in one of last season’s programs, and without much thought he glides into the next steps -- a turn, a twist, a twizzle, eyes half-closed, arms extended overhead. _No. I’m not finished. I’m not finished at all._

Someday, Yuuri knows, the ice will be done with him. It’s not about medals or championships, but time and wear, and one day he’ll find that moment when his body says, _I’m done now._ But until then, until he physically can’t go on or push himself any further, Yuuri can’t imagine moving on and leaving this feeling behind. 

Even if he never wins another medal, the ice is too much a part of him to release it. As long as he has the strength and money to continue…

_Forever. If I can._

But of course he doesn’t have forever. He only has now. He takes ‘now’ for everything it has to give, throwing himself from that step sequence into a spin, then directly into the opening pose of last year’s exhibition program. Midway through that, he falls on a double axel, greeting the ice like an old friend with raw, scraped palms. Back on his feet, he turns to approach again, and then it’s jump drills -- double axel, double toe, double flip. He stays away from his harder jumps, keeping in mind he’s a bit rusty and without a coach, but he’s determined to land at least one of each. Double lutz -- good. Double loop -- dodgy landing. He circles back around the rink to try again.

The sound of strings erupts through the room, tinny and faded. Yuuri recognizes it as “Stammi Vicino” even before the vocals begin, and he winces. The speakers in Ice Castle are in need of repair, or possibly replacement. 

It takes him a moment to realize the sound quality isn’t due to the overhead speakers, because the song isn’t coming from them. It’s coming from his phone. His phone is ringing.

Yuuri stops at the center of the rink and rests his hands above his knees. His chest heaves with each breath, and now that he’s not moving, he can feel the familiar aches in his calves, thighs, and shoulers. He swipes sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. The phone stops.

Crossing the ice, Yuuri skids to a stop in front of the boards. With one hand, he reaches for his water bottle, bringing the top to his lips. With the other, he flips the phone over. Mari’s name appears on the screen with a red icon beside it, then a number -- three. Apparently, he was too absorbed in his practice to even notice. 

As he watches, the screen lights up again, and “Stammi Vicino” starts once more. This time, Yuuri swipes to accept the call.

“Hello?”

“Yuuri.” Mari says his name like an exhale, and Yuuri tenses. He hasn’t heard this tone of voice from her since she called about-- “It’s Vicchan.”

Yuuri’s blood freezes in his veins. Those same words. A crack echoes in the rink -- the plastic water bottle crumpling in Yuuri’s hand. “What? What happened?”

“He’s missing. Mama went to find him for breakfast, but he wasn’t in your room. We checked the banquet room, the baths--”

“Did you check the beach?”

“Papa just got back. He couldn’t find him. Vicchan’s shoes are missing too. Do you have any idea where he..?”

Yuuri doesn’t hear the rest. His stomach is twisting, throat closing up. It’s too much like the last call, like _Vicchan is gone_ , but this time it’s not his puppy but a _person_ \-- a person who, like his namesake, was counting on Yuuri to take care of him.

At least this time he’s in the right country. “I’ll be right there,” he vows before ending the call. He slips on his skate guards and grabs the gate, shoving it open. 

Hobbling over to the bench where he left his shoes, Yuuri begins to tear at his laces. He’s not being careful, he’s being _quick_ , and he’s about to set a speed record for changing from figure skates to sneakers. 

“Yuuri! Finally turning up to see us, eh?” Nishigori, never one to be sparing about volume, has a voice that echoes in the otherwise empty rink. He must have just arrived for the morning, as he’s still carrying an equipment bag over one shoulder. 

Yuuko is at his side, her shoulder slumping as she watches Yuuri pull at his skates. “Oh no, did we miss the whole practice? I was really hoping to see you skate again, but _someone_ left a real mess in the office.” She shoots a pointed glance at her husband, who shuffles his feet and turns away. 

“Sorry,” Yuuri mumbles. He finally gets one boot off and sets it aside on a towel for the blade to dry before working at the other one. “Actually, there’s something I’ve been working on that I wanted to show you, but today’s not good. There’s been an emergen--”

“Yuuri,” Nishigori interrupts. His voice is quiet, and that change is enough to instantly draw the others’ eyes to him. He looks pale as he stares off across the rink and raises a hand as if to point before stopping, letting it drop back to his side. “Why is Victor Nikiforov in my rink, watching you skate?”

Yuuri spins so quickly he feels his back wrench and winces. A few meters away, he can see Vicchan jogging toward them from another part of the rink. He’s wearing some of the simple clothing Yuuri ordered for him -- just a white t-shirt and jeans -- and a dark green, hooded coat over it that Yuuri’s pretty sure is actually Mari’s. He smiles wide when he notices Yuuri watching and waves, picking up his pace to reach Yuuri and the Nishigoris.

“Were you watching me?” It’s probably not the first question Yuuri should be asking now -- maybe the third, or even the fourth -- but it’s the question he cares most about, so it escapes first.

Vicchan bobs his head up and down, nodding eagerly enough to make his long hair sway, and reaches out to tug at Yuuri’s sleeve. _Oh. He didn’t hate it._

There’s a very present silence in the rink. It’s the kind of silence that feels more like a shout, so filled with a hundred things not being said, and Yuuri glances over to find Yuuko and Nishigori both staring at Vicchan. 

This is exactly what Yuuri was so afraid of. It’s why he’s told himself all week that he couldn’t come to Ice Castle, couldn’t take Vicchan out in public, couldn’t go to town and face his friends or risk everything. And yet, now that it’s happened, he isn’t afraid at all. 

It’s just Yuuko and Takeshi.

“He isn’t Victor,” he tells them, then glances over at Vicchan to check his reaction to that, just in case. Even in Japanese, Vicchan ought to understand what he just said, but the other man only tugs on Yuuri’s sleeve again, gesturing toward the ice. “At least,” Yuuri amends, “I don’t _think_ he’s Victor. I mean, you watched World’s, right?”

Yuuko nods, but her eyes are still focused on Vicchan. “I saw Victor there, but…”

“Seriously,” Nishigori mutters. He, too, can’t stop staring. “Yuuri, this is really weird.”

“ _I know_ ,” Yuuri groans. He covers his face with his hands, almost wanting to laugh. It’s a weird sort of relief, talking to someone outside his family about this, someone who knows who Victor is and truly understands. “Look, it gets even more strange than you think…”

Standing there in the place where their friendship truly formed as children, Yuuri tells his oldest friends everything that’s happened, from finding Vicchan on the beach, to his reaction to seeing Victor on the TV, and everything that’s happened since. The only detail he omits is, admittedly, the part where Vicchan sleeps on the floor in his bedroom. His cheeks heat when he reaches the part of the story where that would fit, but he slips by it, only saying that Vicchan is reluctant to be apart from him.

Yuuko and Nishigori listen in silence, even as Vicchan gets bored and lets go of Yuuri’s shirt, wandering off to look at the banners and trophy cases on display.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Yuuri says urgently, darting a look toward the door as he speaks. Soon, the rink will officially open for the day, and the skaters with more typical sleep schedules will arrive. “Please, don’t say anything until we’re able to figure out what’s going on.”

“Of course I won’t,” Yuuko promises, and Nishigori nods. 

“You know you’ve always got our support, but…” he tilts his head, watching Vicchan with lips pressed thin. “You have to admit, this is really strange.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it’s something easy, like a sibling,” Yuuko says, flashing an encouraging smile. “Could it be that Victor had a twin all this time, and we never knew?”

A brief silence falls as they all consider it. It would be the most logical explanation, but Yuuri and Yuuko find themselves shaking their heads at the same time. No. Yuuko’s mother was an identical twin, and Nishigori had twins in his family too. That history had lead directly to the two of them producing their triplets -- Axel, Lutz, and Loop. With the fan obsession Yuuri and Yuuko both had for Victor since childhood, they would definitely have heard something if Victor was also a multiple.

“He could be a clone.” Yuuri turns his head sharply, staring at Nishigori, who shrugs. “What? Cloning is real. They’ve made sheep and stuff, right? Maybe the Russian government made a clone of Victor to keep competing if anything happened to the first one.” Narrowing his eyes, he strokes his chin in contemplation. “It’s actually a pretty brilliant plan, if you think about it. Total skating domination, guaranteed.”

“You watch too many science fiction movies from the eighties,” Yuuko says, grimacing. “What’s next, androids?” 

“Maybe.”

Sighing, Yuuri shakes his head. “Nishigori’s bad taste in films aside, it doesn’t make sense. Victor missed a whole season at one point because of an injury, plus a few other major competitions. If the team had a clone waiting in the wings, wouldn’t they have used him then?”

Nishigori frowns and jams his hands in his pockets. He looks so funny, Yuuri bites his lip to keep from smiling -- a grown man almost pouting at the suggestion that his wild theory doesn’t make sense. “So, he’s a bad clone,” Nishigori doubles down. “He turned out to be defective, and they threw him out!”

“In Japan?” A hint of Yuuri’s amusement must come through in his voice, because Nishigori’s ears turn crimson.

Yuuko pops up on her toes, craning her body to see around Yuuri to where Vicchan is inspecting a wall of competition photos. “He looks a _little_ different than Victor. His hair is too long… he could be older?” She perks up, eyes widening, and gasps, “Time travel.”

“ _Time travel_?” Her husband echoes. “You’re going to laugh at me for clones and then suggest _time travel_?”

“It’s not any worse than yours,” Yuuko says, defensive. “If we’re already talking about cloning and androids, why not Victor from the future?” Staring off across the rink, she clutches the neck of her shirt, daydreaming. “Maybe he came back to warn us about something that hasn’t happened yet, or to change the world to prevent some horrible disaster.”

“In Hasetsu,” Yuuri says, shaking his head. “At _my_ house? What would bring a time traveler here, now?”

They fall silent. Not that they’re trying particularly hard, but none of them can come up with a reason why this time and place might be important to the wider universe.

Yuuri is pulled back from his thoughts by a now-familiar tugging at his sleeve. Vicchan, apparently, has seen the lull in their conversation as his cue to re-insert himself, and now he pulls harder on Yuuri’s shirt, gesturing repeatedly to the ice with his head and body. Despite the lack of words, the message couldn’t be any more clear -- _Get yourself back out there!_

“I should get you home,” Yuuri protests. “Mari called. You ran off without letting anyone know, and they’re all worried about you. We can come back to skate some other time.”

But Vicchan isn’t accepting “no” as an answer today. His touch is firm, one hand against the small of Yuuri’s back, insistent but not quite shoving, but Yuuri can sense where Vicchan might _really_ start to push if Yuuri refuses again.

“Okay,” Yuuri caves with a sigh. “Okay, I’ll skate. Wait just a minute.” He sinks onto the bench and pulls his other skate back on, adjusting his laces as Vicchan paces nearby. When Yuuri reaches over to grab his phone next, Vicchan makes a disgruntled noise.

“I know. I know. I’m almost ready.” Yuuri opens his text thread with Mari, then looks up to find Yuuko and Nishigori both watching him with suspiciously smug smiles. “What?”

“You give in pretty quickly to Vicchan’s persuading,” Nishigori teases. Yuuri resists the urge to answer with a rude gesture he learned from Sara Crispino. 

After firing off a text to Mari -- _Found Vicchan. He’s safe at the rink with me. Sorry for the worry. We’ll be home soon._ \-- Yuuri knows he can’t put it off any longer, and he returns to the ice, urged along by Vicchan’s gentle prodding. 

He looks up from setting down his skate guards to find Yuuko and Nishigori have joined Vicchan at the boards, and a nest of wasps begins buzzing in his gut. _What’s that English saying, ‘Three is a crowd’?_ Even if it’s only three of his closest friends, Yuuri finds he’s still strangely nervous. There’s something about being alone on the ice, knowing that every eye is on you…

“ _Ganba_ , Yuuri,” Yuuko says, nodding, and Yuuri has to smile at that. It echoes through the past ten years of his life, a reminder of every novice event where Yuuko cheered him from the stands, each senior competition where she texted him in the moments before his group warmup with the same message. It feels good to hear her say it in person again.

Before he’d come back to Hasetsu, he’d been practicing something new. He’d wanted to get the chance to show Yuuko, because he’d done it for her almost as much as for himself, but things haven’t turned out like he expected. Yuuri’s been off the ice for too long now to do anything complicated, and… that program had been for _Yuuko_. To skate it with Nishigori watching, and worse, _Vicchan_ \-- he simply can’t do it, not knowing Vicchan will see. 

No, he’ll stick with something he knows he can do. Nodding, he shoves himself away from the boards and takes his position at center ice. 

Yuuko has undoubtedly been watching his competitions all season, which means she’s seen this short program several times already, and many of them would have been better than this. Without his music, and with his normal opening quad downgraded to a double toe loop, Yuuri knows the experience isn’t the same. But at least this time he doesn’t fall. He’ll take that small victory, even if his landing on the lutz is a bit weird.

When he finishes, he’s greeted by an eruption of cheers -- between the two of them, Yuuko and Takeshi can do the work of half a stadium of fans, and Vicchan is right there, clapping with such energy and enthusiasm that Yuuri worries he’ll hurt his hands. Vicchan grins wide and punches the air, bouncing on his toes and emitting as much sound as his body can produce, and Yuuri laughs, skating over to rejoin them.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Yuuri asks, and Vicchan nods, clapping again. His cheeks are round and pink with delight, and his blue eyes seem to sparkle, reflecting the crystalline ice. It’s the best Yuuri’s seen him look yet, and his fingertips itch to reach out, to touch that happy face and see if Vicchan’s skin is as soft as it looks. 

Instead, Yuuri reaches for the gate. Vicchan slaps his hand.

Shocked, Yuuri blinks up at him. “What was that for?”

With a disapproving sound, Vicchan pinches his lips together and points to the end of the rink, toward the exact spot where Yuuri had nearly botched his lutz. The message is clear enough, no words needed -- _Do it again_. 

Chuckling, Yuuri shakes his head, but complies.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a quieter chapter... for now.

Now that Yuuri knows Vicchan can leave Yu-Topia without the universe imploding, the world of Hasetsu opens up to them. Things change immediately after that day at Ice Castle. The very next morning, Yuuri wakes up before Vicchan again, but this time, instead of sneaking around and fumbling through the darkness to leave on his own, Yuuri drops his arm over the edge of the bed and nudges Vicchan’s shoulder. 

Blue eyes blink open as Vicchan scrunches his nose and squirms in his bed. He yawns and stretches, his back bending like a bow, and Yuuri switches on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with yellowy light.

“Hey,” Yuuri whispers, grinning as he drapes himself over the side of his bed. “Good morning. Do you want to go into town with me?” 

Vicchan sits up so fast, he nearly headbutts Yuuri in the face. Head bobbling like a toy on a car dash, he throws off his blankets and scrambles out of the pallet to get ready, leaving Yuuri chuckling in his wake. 

Once they’re both up and fully dressed, they go out to the common area together, Vicchan’s palm warm in Yuuri’s own. As usual, Hiroko is busy in the kitchen preparing breakfast, and she beams when they enter the room.

“Good morning!” She calls, bustling around the frothing stovetop. Today, she has a flower tucked behind her ear, and her hips sway in a secret dance as she makes her way through the kitchen. “I hope you both slept well. Food will be ready soon.”

“Thanks, Mama. I might go out for a run first, so I don’t exercise on a full stomach.” He squeezes Vicchan’s hand before adding, “I wanted to take Vicchan out with me, but he doesn’t have any good running shoes. Can you think of anything he could use?”

Hiroko hums, considering the problem. “Your father’s things wouldn’t fit, and they’re worn out anyway,” she says. Yuuri had thought of and discarded that already, but he’d hoped she might have another idea. 

“Oh!” she exclaims, straightening up and smiling. “You should ask your sister. Mari!” 

Mari, passing through, stops in the doorway, a pile of folded white towels stacked in her arms and tucked beneath her chin. “Yes, Mama?” Her eyes drop briefly to the spot where Yuuri and Vicchan’s hands are still joined, but if she finds that remarkable, she doesn’t say so.

This time, Yuuri doesn’t let go.

“Vicchan wants to go along for Yuuri’s run, but he doesn’t have any shoes.”

“He can borrow my bike,” Mari offers immediately. “ _If_ he’s not going to run it into a wall.”

“Almost a decade and she still won’t let me live that down,” Yuuri mutters in English for Vicchan’s ears before switching back to Japanese. “That would be great. Thanks, nee-chan.”

Mari shrugs, inclining her head toward the front door. “Bike lock key is on the left hook.” She narrows her eyes at Vicchan, who is looking up at the ceiling, the picture of innocence. “Make sure he knows how to ride before you leave the house.”

“Of course, of course,” Yuuri says, already tugging Vicchan toward the door as he waves goodbye to Hiroko.

As luck would have it, Vicchan _does_ know how to ride. They get the bike unlocked, and he hops on without any hesitation, pedaling in a neat circle in front of the house as he adjusts to the feel and weight of an unfamiliar bicycle. Once Yuuri is certain he won’t crash -- Mari would _really_ never let him have peace again -- he takes off, returning to the same route he ran in high school, and Vicchan pedals along with him, sometimes at his side and sometimes lagging behind, allowing Yuuri to set the path and pace. 

Though they don’t talk on the run, Yuuri can always feel Vicchan’s presence nearby. It’s nice to have company aside from his playlist. As Vicchan pulls alongside him on the bridge, Yuuri turns to watch him coast down the hill, his silver hair fluttering in the breeze. On the decline, he surges ahead, and Yuuri stretches his legs to keep up, panting through a smile as he pushes himself even harder. 

By the time they return to Yu-topia, breakfast is already on the table, and it’s late enough that Yuuri’s father and sister have joined the meal as well. 

“How many pieces is my bike in?” Mari asks around a mouthful of egg. Yuuri holds up one finger in answer, though not the usual one, and Hiroko swats at him with a towel until he ducks away, catching the empty chair by his papa.

Even though the plates and bowls are already set and filled, and Yuuri and Vicchan have barely begun to eat, Yuuri watches as his mama returns to the stove and brings back an extra helping for Vicchan in advance, fluffling his hair as she slides it onto the plate. Yuuri ducks his head to hide his smile.

“Any plans for today?” His mama asks, and Yuuri shakes his head.

“I didn’t have anything in mind past the run. Now that Vicchan is safe going to town, we’re ready and willing to do whatever you need.” Though he’s speaking to his mama, he meets Mari’s eyes across the table as he talks. She doesn’t quite smile in answer, but Yuuri still feels her approval.

Hiroko claps her hands, squeaking with delight. “Oooh, I’ll make a list for the market right now! We can celebrate Vicchan’s new freedom tonight.” She sets to work digging through the kitchen in search of paper and a pen.

The list is completed when Yuuri finishes his food, decorated with little heart and flower embellishments and accompanied by instructions specifying brands, weights, and varieties of each item. It’s way more instruction that Yuuri actually needs, but he accepts it with gratitude for the effort.

Clouds have rolled in since they returned from running, and they now blanket the sky, hanging over Hasetsu from one horizon to the other. This time, Yuuri walks, but Vicchan takes the bike again, pedaling along at a sedate pace.

He stops outside of the downtown streets, leaning on one leg while straddling the bike, and waits for Yuuri to catch up. Yuuri quickens his steps, eyes fixed on Vicchan’s face. He can’t name the expression he sees there -- Vicchan isn’t smiling or staring off into space, not biting his lip or furrowing his brow. Instead, he watches Yuuri with a sort of placid contentment. It’s the _openness_ of the expression that gets him, as if Vicchan’s face is a blank canvas, ready to accept whatever Yuuri wants to create on it. 

This time, when Yuuri catches up, he taps Vicchan’s hand. “Tag!” He shouts, then begins to sprint into town. 

Looking back over his shoulder once, he sees Vicchan in pursuit, his blue eyes alight.

Yuuri slows when he reaches the last few streets before the market. The roads may not be crowded, but he’s beginning to catch some strange looks from neighbors, and he can hear the gossip now. _Katsuki ran into town earlier like he was being pursued by a powerful spirit, but it was only a white-haired foreigner on a bicycle. This is what happens to your children if you let them go to America._ While he knows his family would find such rumors more entertaining than anything, he’d rather not have to deal with the inevitable teasing. 

Of course, once he’s slow enough for Vicchan to reach, the neighbors start to catch up with him too. Yuuri isn’t dumb -- he knows a lot of the attention is really about Vicchan, since this is his first time in town without a ridiculous disguise, but it seems every old person or former classmate still in Hasetsu has a sudden interest in saying hi to Yuuri.

If nothing else, he’s glad it’s happening now. A few weeks ago, he would have been annoyed, embarrassed, avoidant, too trapped in his own head to be much good to anyone but his family (and barely them). But today he’s in a good enough mood to smile and greet those old acquaintances that approach him with kindness, even when he starts to tire of saying, “This is Vicchan, my friend from America. He only understands English, I’m afraid.” Most people in Hasetsu speak only a small amount of grade school English, but Vicchan brightens and beams at each fumbling phrase, happy to both bow and shake hands for those that want to.

With all the stops, it takes longer than normal to make their way to the market, and Yuuri’s grateful, once they arrive, for the extra specifics on his mama’s list. It _does_ make finding the items a bit easier, but the list is long and Yuuri has to manage both a shopping basket and a very distracted Vicchan, who is himself constantly sneaking items from the shelves into the bottom of their basket like a mischievous toddler.

Yuuri manages to find _most_ of the spare snacks and return them to the shelves before they check out, but he still ends up paying for an unexpected package of matcha cakes and a bag of ume-flavored potato chips. He’d probably protest more if he didn’t enjoy those himself. 

Back outside, Yuuri loads the bags into the bike basket. He’s planning to ask Vicchan if he’d prefer to bike or walk back, but when Yuuri turns, he finds Vicchan leaning up against a wall, head tilted back and eyes closed.

Yuuri frowns, mentally kicking himself. Vicchan, whose skin always seems pale to Yuuri, even after days on the beach, is nearly translucent now, and the purple shadows beneath his eyes are beginning to bloom. Unaware of Yuuri watching, he sags against the wall for support.

 _I forgot he’s not well_ , Yuuri realizes. It’s easy to forget, with Vicchan often so energetic, but whatever he experienced before Yuuri found him, it’s left marks not so easily erased by a few good meals and some extra sleep. _If he has to walk or bike back to the onsen, he may collapse again._

Biting his lip, Yuuri looks at Mari’s bike and begins to unload the bags. “I have a fun idea,” he says as he works, keeping his head down so Vicchan won’t read hints of the lie. “How about this to get home?”

To demonstrate, Yuuri hangs the grocery bags on his arms and then straddles the bike. Reaching back, he pats the wooden basket behind the seat. “You can ride here instead of the bags, and I’ll pedal us both back”

Vicchan eyes the basket like a starving man at the window of a ramen shop, but the noises he makes are decidedly skeptical.

“It’s fine. Mari and I used to do this all the time.” Yuuri’s not lying this time. He’s merely leaving out the part where he was still in grade school back then, and it had been _him_ on the basket while Mari pedaled with the bags. Vicchan, for all he’s still too scrawny, is a great deal taller than eight year-old Yuuri. He seems willing to be persuaded, though, so Yuuri adds, “It’ll be good off-ice training for me.”

Given enough excuses to justify what he wants, Vicchan hops up onto the basket with a wide grin, and Yuuri locks his knees, already struggling to stop the bicycle from tipping over with the extra weight unbalancing it.

This is not the smartest choice he’s ever made, but with Vicchan around, Yuuri knows he could be making many _much_ stupider decisions. 

“Okay,” he says, mostly to reassure himself. “Let’s do this.”

It’s a struggle to get those first few pumps in, and Yuuri’s thighs scream, drowning out the groaning of Mari’s poor bicycle, but once they get some momentum, the process becomes a bit easier.

Not much, but some. Yuuri prays for downward slopes ahead. 

The challenge of extra weight is compounded by the fact that Vicchan is _thrilled_ about his new conveyance, and he keeps squirming around, eagerly waving to the townspeople he recognizes when they stare at the strange sight. More than once, the bike sways with his movement, threatening to tip them both into the street, but Yuuri grits his teeth, puts his head down, and muscles through. He’s _not_ going to get them both injured when they only just acquired a bit of freedom. He’s _also_ never going to hear the end of it if he crashes Mari’s bicycle again. Those two thoughts on their own are enough to force him to hold it together, and somehow -- _somehow_ \-- they make it back to Yu-topia in one piece.

Vicchan leaps off the basket as soon as Yuuri brakes in front of the entrance, and the bike gives way, tipping to the side before crashing to the ground between Yuuri’s feet with a squealing clatter that makes him wince.

Hopefully, Mari was at the back of the house and didn’t hear it. Yuuri rights the bike and takes it back to lock up, passing the grocery bags off to Vicchan to take inside. Once the bike is secure, Yuuri pokes his head into the entryway cautiously. He half expects to find his sister waiting for him, arms folded and a broom propped against the wall nearby. Forget the ninjas at Hasetsu castle -- Katsuki Mari can be _lethal_ with a broom.

But he finds only an empty entrance and the happy, busy sounds of shuffling work drifting out from the kitchen at the rear. The dining room is relatively peaceful, with just a few regulars stretched out, the TV on mute as they rehearse a familiar argument on what to watch, and Yuuri waves to the ones who look up as he dashes by, intently focused on the kitchen ahead.

Vicchan is already there and seated, snacking on a fresh onigiri with great relish as Yuuri’s mother trundles around the kitchen, putting away the ingredients they brought home. 

“Did you have a good trip?” She asks, and Yuuri knows what that means, so he launches into a full recitation of each neighbor he saw on the road, each new garden he noticed being planted, and each home he’d noticed standing newly quiet and empty. Hiroko nods along, surprised by little of it, and only occasionally exclaims or inserts a follow-up question -- “How did her hair look?” “Did he seem healthy?” “Were there any signs up out front?”

Once the shopping is put away, she moves seamlessly back into cooking, and Yuuri follows her lead. When she lays out carrots and a knife, then steps over to the stove, he takes his cue and slides into that space, slicing the vegetables with the same precision he learned at her side, back when he was barely tall enough to see the countertops. Soon, Vicchan too is at work peeling potatoes, and the kitchen falls into a soothing pattern -- wash, slice, move aside, gather the next. Hiroko hums while she works, and Yuuri’s voice joins hers. Sometimes, from the doorway, he hears another person harmonize in alto or tenor tones, and the melodies weave in and out as the work continues. 

When he runs out of other vegetables, Yuuri wipes the sweat from his brow and turns to retrieve the peeled potatoes. They’re done, but Vicchan is sleeping among them, head pillowed on one arm atop the cutting board, the peeler still clutched in his other outstretched hand. His silver hair spills across his cheeks, highlighting the peaks of them as well as the deeper valleys beneath his eyes.

Yuuri picks up the bowl of naked white potatoes with care not to wake the sleeping man and finds his mother watching with solemn eyes. “He’s not well,” she says softly, watching Vicchan breathe through parted lips.

“I know,” Yuuri says, as if he hadn’t just forgotten this same thing earlier in the day. It’s a delicate balance. Vicchan is _better_ than when he arrived, but he’s not _well_ , and though he’s beginning to fill out and brighten with regular feeding and good sleep, the road back to full health and energy will undoubtedly be a long one.

By the time the afternoon cooking is done, Vicchan is awake again, sniffing around the pots on top of the stove like an eager hound on the scent of a treat. Yuuri bats his hands away from the dishes even as his mama sets aside bites of everything, putting together a late lunch plate for Vicchan to sample from.

Yuuri hasn’t technically eaten lunch, but he’s far from hungry. As they cooked together, he’d been sampling bites of each dish here or there, frequently presented with a steaming spoon by his mama, who needed his opinion on the level of spice or if the dish needed more salt. The bites add up, and so he only snags a slice of sweet, cold melon from the fridge to eat while he watches Vicchan inhale an inhuman amount of food yet again.

“Will you stay in to help your sister with dinner service?”

Yuuri hums, and his mother turns shrewd eyes on him, knowing that response for the “no” it is. “I was thinking of going over to Minako’s,” he admits. “I haven’t seen her since Vicchan’s first night.” He doesn’t mention the deep itch beneath his skin, a crawling, antsy need to keep moving that errands and cooking did little to quench.

“Be careful,” Hiroko says carefully, her eyes falling on Vicchan, who is gulping down water, head tilted back and throat working. “Remember what we talked about before. Don’t wear him so thin he can’t spring back.”

“I won’t,” Yuuri promises, then repeats himself at his mother’s dubious expression, “I _won’t_. Vicchan, do you want to go with me to the ballet studio?”

Vicchan perks up and immediately rises from the table, grabbing for Yuuri’s hand, ready to go straight to the door. Yuuri grins at his eagerness, though there’s still a twist of guilt in his chest. Maybe it _is_ too much, knowing how tired Vicchan was before, but Yuuri wants to go, and he knows, now, that Vicchan will never allow himself to be left behind.

Hiroko sighs and reaches for the fridge. “Why don’t you go gather whatever you need, then. I’ll fix up some leftovers for Minako-senpai and you can take them over. She’ll probably have forgotten lunch again.”

-

Minako’s studio is near enough to the onsen that they can leave the bike tied in the yard and go over on foot. There’s no hurry to get there, as afternoon bleeds into evening and Minako’s sparse classes empty out after five, the children returning home for dinner. 

Yuuri and Vicchan arrive just as Minako is saying her farewells to the last bright-eyed little girl with her hair in a tight, pink ribbon-bound bun. The girl skips off, and Minako stands blocking the doorway and looks them over. Her lips purse at the sight of Yuuri, relax as she sees the food containers in his arms, and finally spread into a smile when her eyes light on Vicchan behind him. 

“Come on, then,” she sighs. “You’re letting in the flies.” But she reaches out and grabs the food from Yuuri before she props the door open with her foot.

When Yuuri and Vicchan emerge from the bathrooms in their gear, they find Minako already blowing on a reheated slice of chicken. She eyes them again, and Yuuri shifts his weight under her gaze. Minako’s never been one to hold her opinions in check, and at least when she looks at Vicchan, he knows what she sees. 

Vicchan holds himself straight and proud, his posture impeccable. It does nothing to cover for the fact that his borrowed clothing doesn’t remotely fit him. The leggings he took from Yuuri’s dresser disdain his ankles and reach for his calves, displaying several centimeters of pale skin scattered with light colored hair. Without ballet shoes, he’s barefoot on the polished wood floor, and bits of chipped pink polish still cling to the edges of his toenails. Minako, too, notices this, staring at the bones and callused arches of Vicchan’s feet for longer than necessary before her eyes snap up to Yuuri.

She points at him imperiously. “You’re too fat,” she declares, which Yuuri expected. Her finger moves to highlight Vicchan, and she adds, “and he’s too thin. What am I meant to be doing here, exactly?”

Yuuri glances over at Vicchan, but he only waits, head high and smile placid. Minako has been speaking English, so Vicchan must understand the words and tone, but he seems unphased by the critique. 

“I’ve decided to return to training,” Yuuri admits, quiet. He hasn’t even told his parents yet, and he’s expecting the way Minako turns to stare at him, but not the small, high-pitched sound Vicchan makes at the news. 

Yuuri isn’t quite sure what that sound means, and he’s too nervous to look at Vicchan’s face and find out.

“I need help getting back into shape for skating, and Vicchan is--” Now, Yuuri looks, but if Vicchan’s face held any clues to what he wanted before, they’ve since vanished. “Vicchan is here, too,” Yuuri concludes, shrugging. In terms of ballet, Vicchan is a wildcard. Yuuri isn’t sure whether the man will suddenly spring across the room _jeté_ or fumble through an attempt at first position.

Minako nods and sweeps her arm toward the mirror and the barre. “Alright, then. Yuuri -- warm up. Vicchan…” she pauses to consider, then declares, “I’ll focus on you tonight. Let’s assume you’re brand new, and we’ll start from there.”

So, as Yuuri begins the familiar routine of stretches, Minako accompanies Vicchan to the barre. She focuses on him with gentle touches, quiet and careful instruction in English, only to interrupt herself to bark an order at Yuuri across the room: 

“Your leg is sloppy!”

“Yuuri, do that again!”

“Don’t forget to _breathe_!”

Through a magic Yuuri has never understood, Minako always senses the moment his attention falters, his energy flags, or he starts to think she’s too busy elsewhere to notice what he’s doing. Just as he begins to droop, to let his elbow bend or relax his shoulders, her voice cracks across the studio like a bullwhip. 

It’s a wild contrast next to her demeanor with Vicchan. Yuuri watches them together, reflected in the studio-length mirror. Asked to balance in order to stretch a hip or knee, Vicchan trembles, even with the aid of the barre. Minako stays close, supporting him as needed with gentle hands or standing ready to catch him if he stumbles, murmuring quiet instructions and reassurances that don’t quite catch on Yuuri’s ears. 

Despite his shaking, his tired and unsure muscles, what Vicchan is accomplishing is still remarkable-- and _distracting_. For his apparent age, and for all his precise background shrouded in mystery, Vicchan is incredibly bendy. In a lunge that nearly becomes a forward split, he even manages to make Yuuri’s old, ill-fitting leggings look flattering.

What’s even more distracting than his stretching, however, is his smile. Thanks to the mirror, Yuuri can see Vicchan’s delight from every angle -- the curve of his wide mouth, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes, that flash of teeth when Minako suggests a new position and Vicchan gets it right the first time, blooming under her quiet praise.

“Yuuri, are you dancing or dreaming?” Minako snaps, and he shakes himself back into reality.

“Dancing, sensei.” Yuuri lowers his eyes, trying to refocus himself on the form of his reflection and the precise quality of his movements, but it’s impossible not to sneak glances at times, his eyes stealing over without his conscious permission to check in on Vicchan again and again. 

The fourth time he looks, their gazes collide. Yuuri feels the heat rush to his face, the electricity of being caught making his blood tingle. He turns back to his own work again, willing the flush to go down, but it comes back in full force as the thought sinks in -- if he was caught looking, it means Vicchan was looking too.

Sore and satisfied, they end the workout sprawled on the floor on a pair of yoga mats Minako unrolled for cooldown, staring at the ceiling. When he closes his eyes, the only sound Yuuri hears in the darkness is Vicchan’s slow, even breathing. They’re side by side, near enough that Yuuri could reach out and find Vicchan’s fingers even without looking. 

His eyes slit open. Minako is standing at their feet, arms folded, looking down at both of them without guard. Unaware that Yuuri can see her, she watches him, then flicks her eyes over to Vicchan, and the depth of her gaze has a weight of despair.

On the walk home, Yuuri silences his usual chatter about the sights. He makes a remark to Vicchan only once, pointing out the bright disc of a full moon hanging overhead in the wake of a setting sun. Minako’s expression is still in his thoughts, and it dogs his footsteps the whole way home.

Opening the door to the onsen washes that all away. Dinner service is in full swing as they clatter through the door, the dining room overflowing with shouts and cheery greetings. Yuuri’s papa and sister are both in there, ostensibly waiting on the guests, though Toshiya has a beer bottle dangling from one hand and seems to be chatting more than he’s serving. 

Yuuri goes straight to the kitchen, and his mama looks up from a steaming pot, clearly relieved to see him. 

“What can I do?” he asks, then feels Vicchan tug at his shirt and amends it, “What can _we_ do?”

“Second shelf in the fridge has ingredients for our dinner on it. If you both could begin slicing--”

“We’re on it.” It takes mere seconds for Yuuri to find everything he needs, dancing around his mama to uncover a pair of clean cutting blocks and knives alongside the food. At the table, he and Vicchan set to work together, preparing the family meal while Hiroko focuses on satisfying their guests.

When the last diners have filtered out of the onsen, carousing off into the night, then the family can finally eat, all together in a circle at the warm kitchen table. Yuuri passes the dishes around and watches as, at the end of the table, Vicchan does his part to contribute, nodding along and smiling when Mari turns to him periodically, translating for their parents from fluid Japanese into a yes or no question. It’s hard to imagine this table once felt complete with only the four Katsukis seated at it. Vicchan is as much a part of the circle as Yuuri himself now.

Bellies full and dishes empty, Yuuri stands to help clear the table and lets out an unexpected groan. “Ah, Mama,” he complains, rubbing his thighs with his fists. “Minako-sensei’s been mean to me.”

“I’m pretty sure you asked her to do that,” Mari says, smiling wolfishly. “Knowing you, she told you to stop and you begged for more.”

Yuuri looks away, trying to hide the faint flush that will betray the reality of that guess. 

“Take a bath before bed,” his papa suggests. He’s leaning back in his chair as if it, too were a hot spring. “You can have it to yourself. And then, you can clean it up when you’re done.”

It’s nothing but a ploy to give him a chore so his father will have more time to sit and digest his dinner, but still, it’s not a bad idea. Even the thought of sitting chest-deep in steaming water makes Yuuri’s muscles loosen up infinitesimally. He glances over at Vicchan, whose eyelids are already drooping again. After all the excitement today, he’s probably sore too. 

“Vicchan, do you want to take a bath with me?” Mari shoots him a sharp glance, but Yuuri ignores it. Vicchan blinks his blue eyes wider, smiles, and nods his head in answer before stretching, arms up overhead and jaw trembling, struggling to hold in a yawn. 

It’s a beautiful night for a bath. When they emerge from the showers and step out to the hot springs on kitten feet, the sky overhead is already black, shot through with bright stars and marshmallow streaks of cloud. Yuuri hadn’t realized how much he missed these stars in Detroit, how blank the sky was there with city lights drowning out all but the brightest. Hasetsu is so small, so far from the city, that when he tilts his head up, there’s nothing to see but a million dazzling lights. 

Yuuri hisses when he steps into the spring. The contrast between cold air and the hot water has warmth shooting up from his ankle to his scalp, making his skin tighten and itch. He lowers himself in slowly before leaning his shoulders back against the cool stones. Vicchan descends behind him, falling into the water more easily, and the steam hanging over the hot spring parts around him, dashing for the edges of the pool like a frightened mist spirit.

Tilting his head back, Yuuri sinks a few centimeters deeper, eyes closed, until the only part of him not underwater is his head. Beside him, he hears Vicchan sigh, giving voice to the same contentment sinking into Yuuri’s bones as the hot water works its magic on overstretched muscle.

When his eyes open, it’s to a night dark sky broken by the round, shining silver of a full moon. The light beams down on their little spring, wind rustling the little trees and bushes, and otherwise all is still, all is silent. A single branch of a sakura tree reaches over them, stretching past the boundaries of the high fence as if to say hello, and at the end of its spread Yuuri can make out the clusters of buds, dark pink tips peeking out, only a week or so from bloom. 

He looks over to Vicchan, wanting to point out the blossoms, but Vicchan’s head is still tilted back against the stones, eyes closed, a subtle, smooth blanket of contentment draped over his features. The water is perfect, and Vicchan is smiling. There’s nothing more Yuuri might ask for.


	8. Chapter 8

Now that he’s told Minako that he’d like to return to skating, Yuuri pursues that goal in earnest. Each day starts with a run to the rink, then on-ice practice in the early hours. The bulk of his day is spent running errands or helping at the onsen, followed by more pain and exhaustion courtesy of Minako-sensei at the ballet studio. 

For all of it, Vicchan dogs his steps like a happy shadow. Each day seems to bring him a little more strength, a little more quiet joy. Among the family, he fits as if he’d always been there, and Yuuko coos over him at the rink each day, fascinated to such an extent that Nishigori makes the occasional snide comment about his own jealousy.

After his embarrassing defeat at the Final and his emotional slump at home, Yuuri had been worried he might lack the motivation to step back into serious training, especially without the help of a coach, but once he begins he discovers that it’s no trouble at all. Vicchan is by his side at the ballet studio, the beach, the market, everywhere Yuuri wants to go, but above all it’s clear that he _loves_ to accompany Yuuri to the rink. Each day, when they take that curve in the road that means Ice Castle will be their next stop, Vicchan’s eyes brighten, and his feet on the bike pedals push faster, more firmly, lifting him up from the wedge seat.

When Yuuri skates, Vicchan drapes himself over the boards, sometimes trotting around the outside to keep up with Yuuri’s position. He watches with rapt fascination, applauding the victories and cheering silently with every fiber of his body. Sometimes, when Yuuri makes a mistake, Vicchan even attempts to scold him, but his serious face and grumbling gestures don’t wound the same way a disappointed word might, and Yuuri can only bow, smile, and promise to try again. 

Before, Yuuri often found himself motivated to do well for fear of letting people down. Now, he wants to do well to see Vicchan’s face light up, his lips splitting wide into a heart-shaped smile.

With this new routine, the last of March fades away and April shuffles in on restless winds. Spring brings out the birds and a burst of warmer weather that has more residents of Hasetsu venturing out of their homes for a meal, exercising worn joints that ached too much through the cold and rainy days. The onsen is about as busy as it gets, between the weather and the new rumors circulating town of Yuuri’s return with a _special visitor_ , and Yuuri is so pleasantly busy, he doesn’t have time to think about much besides what he’s doing on a given day. Worn, happy, and full of his mama’s good cooking, he falls into bed each night and sleeps more soundly than he has in years.

One night, as he checks his phone feeds in bed before turning out the light, Yuuri breaks off his scrolling to crack a huge yawn, eyes closed and shoulders rolling. When he looks down again, he finds a photo from the local park management service -- pale pink and white buds in full burst, transforming the local viewing spot from a pleasant walk to a wonderland.

In the photo, Yuuri can see a boy and girl in school uniforms walking side by side beneath the sakura-laden boughs, and he smiles a bit sadly. An inquisitive noise from the floor beside him draws his eye to Vicchan, who is stretched out on his pallet, watching Yuuri’s face.

“The cherry blossoms are blooming,” Yuuri explains, tilting the phone so Vicchan can see the image. “I haven’t been to see them since junior high. Yuuko used to organize these picnics…” He trails off, remembering afternoons spent under the trees with snacks, music, and laughing faces. “Well, once we got older and she started dating Nishigori, they went as a couple instead. I’ve never had anyone to go with.”

Vicchan makes another small noise, and Yuuri pauses, reconsidering his words. He may not have had anyone to walk through the blossoms with in high school, but -- doesn’t he have that now? He swallows, heart fluttering in his chest, and sneaks a glance at Vicchan. He’s lying on his back, spread-eagle beneath a blue sheet with Gundams on it retrieved from the back of Yuuri’s closet. His eyes are slitted, sleep stealing over him, but his face is still turned toward Yuuri, as his attention so often is. 

Biting his lip, Yuuri pushes through his sudden burst of nerves and forces the question out before fear of rejection can sweep in and shove him down. “Vicchan, would _you_ want to go view the blossoms with me?”

With those words, any illusion of sleepiness evaporates. Vicchan’s eyes widen and he sits straight up, smiling wide. He grips the edge of Yuuri’s bed, fingers making divots in the firm mattress, and pulls himself onto his knees. His excitement is infectious, and it washes over Yuuri in an instant, bringing color to his cheeks and an answering smile to his face.

“Okay, that’s a yes, then.” Yuuri laughs, because only then does Vicchan realize he forgot to nod his answer, and his head bobs like an overwound toy. “We’ll take a rest day. We can pack snacks in the morning and leave right after breakfast, then stay out and do whatever we want.”

Vicchan’s eyes sparkle, and his fingers dig more firmly into the mattress. There’s color in his cheeks too, and for a moment he looks strikingly familiar, a face that might reach out from one of Yuuri’s old posters or raise a hand to wave from atop a shining podium. 

The bedtime alarm on Yuuri’s phone beeps quietly, and he turns to swipe it off. “We should get some sleep if we’re going to get up early.”

Nodding, Vicchan falls back into his nest, burrito wrapping the Gundam sheet around himself as best his can, his bare feet sticking out the bottom. 

Yuuri puts his phone away and turns off the light, murmuring his _goodnight_ before nestling down into his own bed. His body aches pleasantly, the tired soreness of a full day making itself felt in his calves and shoulders, but there’s no heaviness in his eyelids anymore, no depth of sleep pulling at his mind. He lies awake, his heart still racing, staring at the pale expanse of his bedroom ceiling in the blackness.

Beside him, Vicchan’s blankets rustle, and he knows he’s not the only one too excited or worried to sleep. _It’s not a date_ , he reminds himself. He hadn’t _asked_ for that, specifically, so it doesn’t count, and maybe Vicchan doesn’t understand the significance of blossom-viewing. Maybe Vicchan just wants to see pretty flowers.

But even as Yuuri’s mind argues these points, Yuuri lets them slip by, not allowing their barbed ends to catch him. It’s not a date, but it’s a day together, and if things go well… If things go well…

Vicchan’s blankets rustle again in the dark, and Yuuri pulls his own sheet up over his face, smiling into the cloth. _If_ tomorrow goes well, but he knows it will, and the thrill in that thought keeps him awake for a long time.

-

“Yuuri! Vicchan! Wake up and come shovel snow!”

The words penetrate Yuuri’s sleeping brain like syrup seeping into the divisions of a waffle, and he groans quietly before the meaning of his mother’s call takes hold. _Snow?_ Yuuri sits bolt upright in bed, kicking off the blankets, and lunges for the window. Tearing the shade open, he presses his face and palms to the icy glass and stares out at a cloud of white.

“Oh my god,” he exclaims. “It’s April!” But the forces of nature clearly have no respect for the calendar this year. Everything Yuuri can see is thickly blanketed in heavy, wet snow. Even the blossoms on the early flowers are rimmed with frost. As he scans the yard, Yuuri’s breath fogs the window in a widening halo of opaque moisture.

Behind him, there’s not so much a noise as a displacement of air, and Yuuri turns to see Vicchan kneeling on his pallet, hair wild and rumpled from sleep, pink sheet lines on his cheek, and his shoulders slumped forward.

Vicchan’s far from amazed by the sudden snowfall, and it takes a second for Yuuri to realize why. “Oh! Vicchan, we can still go see the blossoms today as long as you don’t mind walking in the snow.”

Vicchan perks up immediately, transforming in an instant from dejected back to excited, and Yuuri laughs at how quickly the change happens. “I lived in _Detroit_ for five years,” he says. “I don’t mind some snow. We can help Papa shovel first and grab some breakfast, then go out just like we planned. They won’t fit right, but you can borrow Papa’s extra winter things, and since it doesn’t snow much here, I bet we’ll have the park to ourselves--”

The last of Yuuri’s plan is cut off when Vicchan launches himself onto the bed and throws his spindly arms around Yuuri’s neck. Yuuri freezes at the unexpected warm body practically in his lap. Though they hold hands often, Vicchan hasn’t hugged him since…

 _The first day, on the beach,_ Yuuri remembers, then feels himself flush at the thought, his skin memory lighting up with the phantom weight of that Vicchan, who so desperately clung to Yuuri’s shoulders.

This Vicchan isn’t quite so frail, or so desperate. He’s merely _happy_ , and when he starts to pull back, Yuuri wraps his arms around Vicchan’s waist, holding him fast. Resting his forehead on Vicchan’s lean shoulder, he pulls in the moment and lets it linger. 

-

As Yuuri expected, Toshiya’s spare clothes are ill-suited to Vicchan’s taller, thinner body type. He winds up in a Frankenstein creature combination of those and some of Yuuri’s old things, along with a knit hat from the back of Mari’s closet -- the colorful sort with a big, fluffy pompom at the very top. Between all of this, Vicchan’s clothing manages to be both too short on his limbs and bulbous on his torso. Topped with the silly hat, he looks like a character sprung to life from a children’s show as he stomps around through the thick snow with plastic bags over his shoes and a broad smile on his face which doesn’t fade even when Mari misses her target (Yuuri) and flings a whole shovel-full of snow at his back. 

Vicchan’s face and fingers are pink in the warmth of the kitchen, drying and defrosting from the hard work, and on top of his usual second helping of omelette, Hiroko slides an extra slice of melon onto his plate to refuel. Yuuri, as always, pretends not to notice the little treat. Vicchan needs it now more than he does -- both the food itself, and the affection that lies behind it. 

With their bellies full and their blood warm, they bundle back up once again for the walk to the park. At the door, Hiroko presses a metal thermos full of hot tea into Yuuri’s hands. She wishes him luck with a parting squeeze of his fingers and a sly wink that makes him glad most of his face is covered by his scarf.

The roads, never busy to begin with, are deserted now. Yuuri and Vicchan pass only two cars on their route, both of them creeping along the bridge with headlights beaming, the noise of engines and tires muffled to a faint whirr by the snow. The sun is dim through thick grey clouds, keeping daylight at bay, and so the village they walk into still has the eerie, silent appearance of dawn. Houses they pass spill bright gold light from their windows and illuminate square patches of the snow-covered sidewalks, creating little auras of sparkling ice here and there along the way. 

Yuuri thinks he can feel the warmth radiating from those homes. Maybe those people have the right idea, staying inside. The cold air nips at his cheeks and ears, and the wet snow finds gaps in his boots, seeping inside to melt and saturate his thick wool socks, until each step he takes is accompanied by both a _crunch_ and a _squish_.

Then, he looks over at Vicchan in his mismatched clothing and silly hat, staring enrapt at the little mounds of snow atop fences and flat green leaves with a wondering smile, and Yuuri changes his mind once more. Being outdoors in the wet and cold isn’t so bad after all.

The park is empty. Yuuri had expected most people to be inside for the snow, but he’s still shocked to find no one walking the paths at all. Prior to the storm, today had been predicted as a peak bloom -- one of the absolute best days for a walk or a picnic beneath the cherry trees. In his whole life, Yuuri has never seen the riverside park so deserted on a spring day. 

By the entrance, they spot one other human. Hamada-san, who runs the ramen shop, is out with his cart as if it were any festival day. Steam escaping the joins in the metal carries with it the alluring smell of fresh roasted sweet potatoes, and even though they just ate breakfast, Yuuri finds himself digging in his pocket to buy two before Vicchan can even tug on his sleeve to ask. 

Heat from the foil-wrapped packets seeps through Yuuri’s gloves, warming his fingers, and Vicchan presses his first to one cheek, then the other, smiling as it defrosts his cold skin. They stroll through the park aimlessly, picking at their snacks. It’s impossible beneath the snow to tell the foot paths from the grass, so Yuuri doesn’t bother to try. A river winds through the park, adorned with ornamental bridges, statues, and shrines, each frosted like an elaborate cupcake. The cherry trees line the riverbank and dot the hills on either side, and their boughs hang so low that Yuuri has to stoop to pass under.

Yuuri’s never seen a full bloom with snow before. He’s heard stories from the town elders, but it never snows so late in the Spring in Kyushu anymore, so he hadn’t expected to experience it himself. It’s indescribably beautiful. The plump pink blossoms look like starbursts on a white backdrop, frosted silver on the petals and weighted down by the heavy snow. On top of the wet, thick stuff that sticks to every surface around them, a lighter layer of flakes christens the buds. 

The temperatures are already warming, and the sun-sparkling snow begins to drip as they walk. Sweet potatoes gone, they discard the foil into a trash can and share the tea thermos, passing the steaming liquid from one to the other. A stiff, cold breeze sweeps through the park, shaking the trees, and snowflakes fall along with the petals in a swirl of dazzling color.

Standing at the center of the whirlwind, smiling, the silvery strands of his hair whipping around his face, Vicchan looks more ethereal than ever. Yuuri stands back, blinking, and hopes the flick of his eyelids will seal the image in his memory forever. 

Vicchan’s soft delight is enchanting to watch. Beneath a particularly heavy tree, he pulls off his gloves and reaches up with long, bare fingers to examine the blooms, lightly tracing the edges of the frost-tipped petals and then leaning up, pursing his lips to blow the snow away from the flower without wounding it. He repeats this again and again, smiling like a sunbeam each time he successfully frees a blossom. Yuuri finds himself staring at Vicchan more than the flowers themselves.

By the time they reach the end of the park, the muffled silence of fresh snow has been replaced by the steady _drip drip drip_ of melt, and the sun has burned through the worst of the clouds. The exit is only a few steps ahead, and though it’s still early morning, Yuuri feels the sun setting on this little oasis he’s had alone with Vicchan. Pulling off his own glove, he reaches over and tangles their fingers together, rubbing his warm digits against the icicles attached to Vicchan’s hands. Vicchan’s lips curve, but his attention is elsewhere, as a very confused-looking flying squirrel has leapt onto the gate and is staring around wildly at the snow-covered trees.

 _I wonder what would happen if I kissed him now._ The thought comes unexpectedly, and Yuuri stops walking, forgetting himself until Vicchan turns, tugging on his hand with an inquisitive tilt to his head and a curious noise. 

Right. Vicchan is good at making his feelings heard, but he can’t speak. Yuuri doesn’t know, really, if Vicchan likes him in that same way. Part of Yuuri still believes that Vicchan only clings out of fear or need for comfort, though a growing section of his heart vehemently disagrees. 

But, to know for certain, Yuuri would have to ask Vicchan openly, _Yes or no, do you like me? Do you--_ He shakes himself. He can’t even think the question, much less ask it so brazenly now.

After the park, they loop through town and back to Ice Castle. Yuuri may have said the words “rest day,” but he so rarely means them. Besides, there’s no serious training on the agenda. He only wants to skate for fun, to make Vicchan smile again.

Vicchan’s eyes do light up when he realizes where they’re going. Since Yuuri dove back into training, he now keeps his skates and some spare clothes in a locker at the rink so he won’t need to cart things back and forth to home every day. Vicchan trails him into the locker room as he changes, then back out to the rink, where he lingers by the boards as Yuuri pops in earbuds, throws his playlist on shuffle, and blatantly shows off. 

For the first time in a long time, he has fun with it, playing with modern step sequences he and Phichit had choreographed to pop songs in Detroit but never used in their programs, delayed single jumps that show off his technique and precision, and even a long hydroblade -- an element he’s never used in his programs as a senior skater, though he’s always enjoyed the feel of the ice beneath his fingers, the cold burnishing his cheek.

It’s all for Vicchan, his audience of one, and every time Yuuri pauses and turns to check in, he finds Vicchan smiling, waving, clapping as expected, but…

Yuuri sees it sometimes, when Vicchan doesn’t know he’s looking. There’s a twist of bitter sadness in that smile, a sparkle that doesn’t ascend to the heights of his eyes. Something about today is different, and though Vicchan leans in his usual spot on the boards, he watches the ice with a quiet longing that Yuuri’s skating doesn’t seem to touch.

It’s a short session, but Yuuri can tell when an idea has run its course. He calls it quits and rejoins Vicchan, explaining to his raised eyebrows, “I forgot that Mama mentioned she had some errands for us to run.”

His mama had mentioned nothing of the sort, but it’s a good enough excuse to get them home without Vicchan worrying. It won’t hurt anything if they’re a bit early to lunch, even if Yuuri’s stomach is still satisfied from the snack in the park.

The walk home is wet. There are more cars and townspeople out now, and a good bit of the lovely snow has melted into grey slush on the edges of the street. Yuuri’s snow boots now feel too heavy for the puddles and sludge they’re trudging through in the neighborhood, and he can only imagine how much more uncomfortable Vicchan would have to be, with his worn plastic bags tied back around his ankles now torn and letting in the damp. 

Outside the onsen gates, a dog barks, and Yuuri pauses. For a moment, he forgets the year and expects the original Vicchan to appear, running from the doorway down the front steps, yapping with excitement to greet him. 

But it’s only the lady up the street, walking her red and white cavalier spaniel. Yuuri can never remember her name, only that the dog is called Adzuki, and so he avoids her in the hope she won’t notice that Yuuri only cares about her pup. Vicchan, being foreign, doesn’t need to worry about such courtesies, and he rushes over to rub the soft, silky ears of the wriggling puppy and collect slobbery dog kisses. 

Smiling, Yuuri leaves him to it. He can hear the scrape of a snow shovel coming from Yu-Topia, and he’s unsurprised to find it’s his father outside on the front porch. Though he’s meant to be careful of his back, Toshiya is stooped, clearing out the plops and drips of slushy snow that have slid off the roof to once again obscure the path.

“You should have Mari do that.”

His papa groans, mostly at the comment, but also from straightening out of his crouch, making Yuuri feel at once concerned and vindicated. 

Toshiya rolls his shoulders back and stretches, then smiles at Yuuri. “I’m glad to see Vicchan is doing so much better,” he says. “A week ago, he’d never have gone into the hot springs on his own, especially not with guests here.”

Yuuri frowns at the strange comment. “What are you talking about? Vicchan hasn’t gone in the onsen alone; he’s been with me all m--” 

His voice stops short as the meaning behind his father’s words catches up to his tongue. Papa thinks Vicchan is in the bath, but Vicchan is outside. That means there’s another man, another man who looks like Vicchan, in the bath right now.

And there’s only one other man in the world his papa would mistake for Vicchan. There’s only one person it could be.

Yuuri rips his boots off with the laces intact and hurls them at his father. “Keep an eye on Vicchan for me,” he yells over his shoulder, not pausing before he runs into the house. 

He dashes through the common room, drawing the eyes of their guests. He can sense his mother’s sunny presence in the kitchen and feel his sister’s disapproving scowl. Scrambling for traction on the floors in damp socks, he crashes into a table of souvenirs and keeps going, ignoring Mari’s shout.

Around the corner, down the narrow hall and through the shower room. He glances around, vaguely aware of curious familiar faces peering back at him, and then runs again.

Gasping for breath, Yuuri bursts back out into the cold. There’s a man in the hot springs, alone.

Silver hair crowns a pale, well-muscled form rising out of the steam that hangs over the waters. Yuuri is aware his mouth is hanging open, but he’s forgotten how to make it close. Like an ancient deity born of mist and magic, the man in the springs rises slowly from the water, fully-formed and fully nude. As Yuuri stares, uncomprehending, at the same blue eyes he smiles into over breakfast every morning, the new stranger stretches out a hand. 

“Yuuri,” Victor Nikiforov says, and as many times as Yuuri has heard that voice in interviews, it startles him more than the nudity. He’s never heard it saying _his name_ before. He didn’t expect the long U, or the little caress of tongue on the R. “Starting today, I will be your coach.”

It’s huge, a childhood dream sprung into inescapable life, and yet, as Yuuri’s idol smiles and extends his hand, palm up over the water, all Yuuri can think is, _Where is Vicchan?_


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy valentine's day!

Victor Nikiforov demands attention. That’s always been the case, at least for Yuuri. From the first moment he saw Victor on that tiny TV screen, Yuuri felt himself sucked in, utterly unable to look away. 

He’s never tired of that feeling. Each time he watches Victor speak, perform, _smile_ , all oxygen leaves the room. To let his eyes drift, to give the same focus to anyone else in the room… unthinkable.

And now, Yuuri is discovering that this is also true in person.

He thought Vicchan needed his attention, but Victor’s demands have a whole different tone. From the moment he rises from the bath and declares himself Yuuri’s new coach, every word he speaks has a spark of command. Vicchan may be clingy, but he’s malleable. He’s happy to compromise, if that will work best. Victor drops his wants and needs into Yuuri’s lap, and he expects them to be fulfilled. 

Victor’s most immediate need is food, and so Yuuri deposits him in the dining room and hand delivers a bowl of his mother’s katsudon to the table. When Yuuri sets the dish down and steps back, intending to check in with his family, Victor points at the floor opposite him.

“Sit down with me. We should get to know each other.”

Yuuri opens his mouth to protest, but Victor simply looks at him with those ice blue eyes and, gracelessly, Yuuri slides to the floor. He watches, dazed, as Victor picks at the food with first chopsticks, then a fork, delicately licking the first bite with a slip of pink tongue before he dares put it in his mouth. It’s surreal. Victor is literally one of Yuuri’s posters come to life, with his perfectly coiffed hair, unblemished cheeks, and confident, close-lipped smiles. He doesn’t look like a creature that should need food. 

“You like this?” He asks Yuuri, gesturing at his katsudon.

“It’s my favorite.”

Victor makes a noise in response. Yuuri can’t tell if the sound is approving or not, but Victor certainly eats the meal with gusto. Over his shoulder, Yuuri watches Mari walk back and forth through the dining room, a tower of boxes stacked in her arms. Victor had, apparently, ordered a great many of his things delivered to Yu-Topia. Yuuri still isn’t even sure how Victor found out where he _lives_.

Ordinarily, there might have been more struggle to find where Victor’s boxes fit in the house, but luckily the banquet room has already been cleaned out, and Vicchan certainly isn’t using it.

So Yuuri kneels on the dining room floor and watches his sister shuttle back and forth with a year’s worth of Victor Nikiforov’s designer clothing in her arms, even though she glares daggers at him each time she passes. It’s good to have the reminder that something in this house is normal, considering the view in front of him is Victor Nikiforov in a borrowed jinbei, swiping his fingers through runny egg at the bottom of his dish and then licking it off -- thoroughly.

That’s still happening. Yuuri averts his eyes again and clears his throat. “So, uh… What made you decide to come to Hasetsu?” 

“You, obviously.”

“That’s…” If Yuuri’s skepticism isn’t clear in his expression, it’s certainly ringing out in his voice. He doesn’t even know how he plans to finish the sentence he started. That’s… _ridiculous, unlikely, laughable, preposterous_ , his mind supplies. 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to choose one, as Victor cuts in, leaning onto the table. His poorly-tied jinbei gapes open, flashing several centimeters of smooth, unguarded skin, and Yuuri almost misses his response. 

“You inspired me when I saw your performance in Sochi. I wanted to see more of you.”

 _That’s even more unlikely!_ Yuuri’s brain wails like a siren. His performance in Sochi was a disaster -- hardly the type of thing that would pull a man halfway around the world to burn his own career and devote himself to coaching. Yuuri’s been struggling to believe even Celestino would want him as a student after his trainwreck of a free skate in December. What could _Victor_ have possibly seen in it?

It’s possible Victor doesn’t see much. Oblivious to Yuuri’s inner turmoil, he grasps his beer glass with both hands and gulps it down like a frat boy lying about his prowess in a round of Never Have I Ever.

Yuuri can only sit and stare at the bob of his throat. Victor’s neat silver hair falls over one eye when he lowers his glass, and he sweeps it back with one hand -- a gesture that makes Yuuri’s chest tighten. It’s so _Victor_ , and yet…

Yuuri hasn’t seen Vicchan since Victor arrived and swept Yuuri up in his orbit, hasn’t even had time to think about what he’s going to do there or to settle out his own feelings about this sudden proof that Vicchan and Victor aren’t one in the same. He’d _known_ it was impossible, and yet he has trouble letting go of the idea. The man across the table from him is Victor Nikiforov, model-perfect and the picture of vibrant health, but Vicchan is… Well, he’s Vicchan.

 _I never expected Victor would step foot in my house,_ Yuuri thinks, dazed. _Now, I have two of him._ Isn’t there some old story about that -- the boy who got for more than he bargained from a wish?

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri blinks, startled by the sound of his name in that voice again. He’s been zoning out, staring across the table without really seeing or hearing what’s right in front of him. “Yes?”

“You said this katsudon is your favorite dish, right?” Victor’s elbow is propped on the table, his chin resting on his hand. The small smile gracing his lips is familiar from a dozen photoshoots, but his eyes are the deep blue expanse of a frozen lake. 

Yuuri can sense thin ice. He nods, pasting on a smile. “Yes, and my mama makes the best. I’ve tried it in restaurants all over the world, but no other katsudon lives up to this one.”

“But you aren’t eating now?” Victor tilts his head, and his lips thin as his smile stretches, becoming coy. “Wouldn’t you like to try it? I’d love to know if it’s up to par.” As before, he swipes two fingers through the egg and rice clinging to the bottom of his bowl. This time, he offers them to Yuuri.

Yuuri stares at the fingers embossed with dripping gold and feels his face heat. He can’t-- Is Victor really--?

Victor pops his fingers into his own mouth, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks them clean, then says, “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a better taste.”

He leans over the table. Yuuri knew how rapidly Victor could cover the ice. He’d never realized that same speed might apply to land. Suddenly, Victor’s face is millimeters from his own, and Yuuri can smell the ghost of katsudon on Victor’s breath.

He scrambles back, instincts screaming, clawing at the mats on the floor in his haste to scuttle away. Victor’s eyes flash. The ice is breaking.

“Oh, it looks like you’re out of beer!” Yuuri can tell his voice is too loud, the attempted cheer he forced into it falling completely flat. “Wait right here; I’ll grab you another!” 

Before Victor can object, Yuuri is on his feet, measuring his steps as he rushes from the dining room and into the safety of the kitchen. Inside the doorway, he pauses, and lets himself fall back to rest, shoulders pressed back into the wall and one hand pressed into his chest. Victor couldn’t have actually meant to kiss him, could he? After all, they only just met.

 _There’s been all those rumors,_ Yuuri reminds himself. _Victor’s probably dated a lot of people. He’s just a flirt, like Chris. He doesn’t mean anything by it._

“Yuuri? Is everything alright with Victor?” Hiroko’s tongue hesitates on the syllables of Victor’s name, breaking it up into a variety of unfamiliar parts. It’s a wild departure from her soft, comfortable, “Vicchan.”

He straightens, pulling away from the wall. “Yes. Yes, it’s fine. He loved the food.” His mama brightens at that, and Yuuri smiles. Anyone who appreciates a good meal must be a kind soul in his mother’s opinion. Yuuri decides to leave his report at that. 

His eyes fall to the kitchen table and the five chairs around it, all empty. “Have you seen Vicchan? I thought he might be with you.”

Yuuri’s heart sinks when Hiroko shakes her head. “He came in with your papa while you were in the onsen, but when he heard the oth-- Victor, he ran toward your room.” A frown gathers, creasing her forehead. “He hasn’t eaten any lunch yet.”

“I’ll find him,” Yuuri promises. When his mama’s expression doesn’t lighten, he reaches over and gives her hand a brief squeeze. “Thank you, mama. If Victor comes looking for me, keep him busy for a few minutes, please?”

Hiroko nods, and though she still doesn’t seem her usual, chipper self, Yuuri forces his feet out the kitchen door and creeps down the hall. Right now, Vicchan may need him more than his family does.

When Yuuri pushes the door open, he finds his bedroom dark. The shades are pulled down, and all his furniture is outlined in shadow. On the floor, Vicchan’s bed is made and empty. There’s no sign of him, and Yuuri frowns, trying to think of where else Vicchan could have possibly gone. If he’d left, surely someone would have seen him pass through the front rooms.

One of the shadows shifts, stirring misty silver in the darkness, and Yuuri takes a step inside, reaching for his bedside lamp. The pale glow of that single bulb catches on Vicchan’s hair and clings, and Yuuri rushes to his side.

It’s no wonder that Yuuri hadn’t seen him at first. He’s sitting, not on the beds or at the desk, but on the floor, backed into a corner between the foot of Yuuri’s bed and his closet. His legs are pulled up, knees tucked beneath his chin, and Yuuri had never realized a full grown man could look so small. Yuuri sinks to the floor in front of the huddled mess, knees hitting the wood hard enough to make himself wince. Bad idea in the midst of jump training to injure himself over this, but he can’t control where he needs to be.

Yuuri raises a hand, fingers lingering in the air between them, but hesitates, not sure if his touch will be welcome. “Hey,” he says softly, hand falling back to his thigh. “Vicchan, are you okay? If you need me, I’m right here.”

Vicchan raises his head from his knees, blinking at Yuuri as if he can’t believe his own eyes. With a malformed cry, he puts his legs down and launches himself forward, arms flying up to wrap tight around Yuuri’s shoulders. 

It’s the same position they were in last night -- _was it only last night?_ \-- when Vicchan had flung himself onto the bed in joy at being invited out to see the blossoms, but now there’s no happiness to be felt in the way he clings onto Yuuri, fingers pressing into the space between his shoulder blades. Vicchan’s breath shakes and stutters, and his skin is damp where he presses his face into Yuuri’s neck.

This time, Yuuri doesn’t hesitate to hold him back. He wraps his arms around Vicchan and pulls him close, trying his best to feel warm and secure, hoping it will carry through his touch. He rubs Vicchan’s back in sweeping motions, tracing his spine slowly from top to tail. His mama had done this for him, once upon a time, when Yuuri was still small and prone to nightmares with monsters and ghosts in them instead of disappointment and failure. 

He wants to help. He wants to be able to ask Vicchan what it is that’s upset him so much he’s shaking, and to have Vicchan tell him quietly how Yuuri can fix things. But Vicchan can’t explain, and Yuuri can’t help. He can only hold Vicchan more tightly, pull the other man into his lap in full and rock them back and forth slowly on the floor while whispering nonsense sounds and bits of song. With his face buried in Yuuri’s skin, Vicchan twists his hands in the fabric of Yuuri’s shirt and whimpers, and Yuuri knows without a doubt that he’s now more lost than ever.

-

When Yuuri emerges some time later, he closes the door slowly, avoiding any sudden or loud noises. Once it clicks shut, he releases a long breath, shoulders drooping. He’d managed to get Vicchan out of the corner and onto the pallet, swaddled in Yuuri’s softest childhood blanket, but he hadn’t been able to stop the shaking entirely. With Vicchan still too upset to venture out of the bedroom, Yuuri resigns himself to sneaking food back to him later.

From the hall, he can already hear Victor’s clear, commanding tones. He’s speaking loudly and slowly, probably because Yuuri’s parents don’t speak English, and Yuuri winces. It’s the sort of stereotypical obnoxious behavior he’d expect if JJ Leroy came to Yu-Topia for a visit, but not from his idol.

He finds Victor in the kitchen with his mama and sister. Dinner is bubbling away on top of the stove as Hiroko and Mari bustle back and forth with last minute additions and preparations. Victor, perched on a chair with his knees spread wide, smiles and waves when Yuuri enters.

“There you are. Can you tell them I’d like another beer? They don’t seem to understand what I’m saying.”

Oh boy. Mari has her back to him, but Yuuri can only imagine what her expression must look like. He doesn’t even want to know. Mari can understand Victor perfectly well -- hell, she had better marks in English in school than Yuuri had -- so if Victor is under the impression she doesn’t know what he’s saying, it must be because she wants it that way.

He considers instructing Victor on how to get his own beer, then decides to take the road of least resistance instead. Popping over to the cooler, Yuuri grabs three -- for Victor, Papa, and himself. Mari coughs behind him. He picks up a fourth bottle.

Toshiya finishes saying goodnight to the last customers and returns to the kitchen just in time to help with setting out the plates. Victor sits, still and smiling, as the Katsukis swarm around him, and begins to help himself as the food arrives with no hesitation. 

His dishes are already piled high and he’s digging in as Yuuri slips into his own seat. He waits for his mama to pass him the noodles and tries to ignore the sound of chewing from the seat beside him. Each time he glances over, his eyes hurt and he feels a headache gnawing at the space between his brows. His vision tells him that Vicchan is in his usual seat at the dinner table. His brain insists on pointing out that he is not. It’s like trying to watch television, but two different networks are coming in on the same channel, the pictures and sound overlapping. Yuuri’s stomach churns. 

Victor and Vicchan have more in common than looks, as it turns out. Victor, too, has a singular focus on his plate now that food has arrived, ignoring the flow of conversation happening around him. Here and there, Yuuri translates some of what’s been said or switches to English, trying to include their guest, but Victor gives only one word answers and quiet grunts of assent.

When he polishes off his food first, Hiroko turns to him with a smile, “Do you want another serving, Vicchan?”

Yuuri flinches, and he sees Mari out of the corner of his eye, covering her face with her hand. If Victor recognizes anything in what Hiroko asked, though, he shows no sign of it, and Yuuri quietly translates the question, omitting the nickname.

“More of whatever that was,” Victor replies, pointing to where his garlic pasta _had_ been on the plate. Yuuri relays the message back to his mama more politely and lets her take over serving the guest. He can feel Mari’s eyes boring holes in the side of his head. He picks at his chicken.

Even with a second serving, Victor finishes well before the rest of them, then helps himself to another beer. By the time the Katsukis finish eating, Victor’s bottle is half drained and his eyelids are drooping. He lounges in his chair, hips slung forward, eyes fluttering closed, and a permanent scowl etched on his face. Although he hasn’t been the best house guest so far, Yuuri feels a little sympathy for him in that moment. He knows what that sort of jet lag can feel like. Usually, he can go without pause, pushing his limits for a day or so, but the moment he’s settled in a warm room with a full belly, the exhaustion slams him into the floor.

Victor, however, refuses to go down without a fight. Each time he begins to drop -- head falling forward and eyes low, crumpling slow motion toward the table -- he jerks back upright again and scowls more severely. 

Yuuri isn’t sure why he’s so determined to resist. There’s no good reason to stay awake when everyone else will drift to bed soon anyway. “Why don’t you get some sleep?” he asks Victor, trying to sound gentle. “Your room is already made up for you.”

Victor’s eyes snap open again at that, and he leans onto the table toward Yuuri. “I might consider doing that,” he says slowly. His gaze darts down, lingering on Yuuri’s mouth. “Would you walk me to my room? In case I need help to make it more comfortable.”

Cheeks burning, Yuuri gapes. That’s _flirting_. _In front of his parents!_ Cylinders are firing in his brain in the most unpleasant way, and he doesn’t even know where to begin with addressing this.

Mari’s chair groans as she shoves back from the table. “ _I’ll_ take you to bed,” she announces, taking one for the team both by volunteering herself and by revealing her English proficiency. “Yuuri doesn’t even know where we keep the spare pillows.”

Victor frowns, but stands to follow her, and Yuuri manages to capture his sister’s eyes briefly with his own as she walks out. He can only hope his expression conveys _half_ the gratitude he’s feeling right now.

A few minutes later, he hears the door to the banquet room slide closed after a faint “Goodnight” to Mari and sags in his chair. Across the table, his parents are watching him, and Yuuri feels their expectation like a weight in his heart.

He reaches for his glass for a drink to loosen his tongue, but the room-temperate dregs of his beer hold no appeal, so he settles for licking his lips. “I think we need to keep Vicchan and Victor apart.” That’s the most important thing, so he tosses it out onto the table first. 

Mari returns as he’s speaking. She stops in the doorway, leaning against the edge with arms folded, but withholds the comment she undoubtedly has brewing.

“Vicchan’s not doing well right now. I don’t think he wants to be around Victor, so it’s probably best if Victor doesn’t find out he’s here. If Vicchan gets better, then maybe--”

“How long do you think that will take?” Mari interjects. “How long to you expect that man to be here?”

Yuuri shakes his head. Before he can answer beyond that, his father speaks up, voice quiet. “He offered to coach you, didn’t he? Are you planning to take him up on that?”

Silence settles in the little kitchen, all eyes on Yuuri as they wait for his decision. It’s possible that his family thinks he’s considering the offer now, but he already knows his answer. He’s only thinking of how to say it.

“I’ve decided to return to skating,” Yuuri says first. Although he’d told Minako, which means his mama may have known already, he hasn’t actually spoken the words under this roof, and that’s too important of a step to skip over. “Without Vicchan being here, I’m not sure if I would have made this choice or not, but going to the rink with Vicchan, having him at my side to cheer me on… It’s made me realize that I’m not ready to retire from competition. I think I still have something to give the world.”

When Yuuri looks up from the table, he finds his parents wearing fond, matching smiles as they watch him, nodding in approval. He doesn’t need to glance over at Mari to know her expression won’t be so easily won over.

But he can’t let her doubt stop him from finishing what he has to say. “I’ve been practicing without a coach for now, but I can’t do that forever. Celestino may or may not want me back, and the thought of packing and returning to Detroit right now--” He shakes his head. “I’m not interested in that.

“To have someone I’ve admired for so long arrive and offer to coach me at this time is something I wouldn’t even allow myself to dream of. It’s not an idea I can dismiss so easily, even if it makes things difficult.”

A tiny insect has drowned in the last few sips of Yuuri’s beer. He watches its unmoving spec of a body float, suspended in gold. “I can’t let this slip away,” he finishes. “I’m going to say yes to Victor in the morning. I know it’s asking a lot, and it will be hard to keep him apart from Vicchan at all times, but it’s what I need right now. I can’t turn my back on Vicchan, and I can’t dismiss Victor without a chance. I hope you’ll all support me once again.”

His family may not answer with words for a long moment, but for once Yuuri doesn’t need them to.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am once again begging you to believe me that I know the skating in this chapter is neither realistic nor safe.

Yuuri wakes up the next morning sticky and cramped, his arms and legs immobilized, twisted in a cocoon of blankets. It’s _never_ this hot in his parents’ home this time of year, and the first thing his sleep-addled brain thinks of is whether the house is _on fire_. He’s that overheated and sweaty.

He squirms, attempting to disentangle himself from his self-made trap, but the blankets are too tightly wound, and he’s forced to open his eyes to understand the mess he’s rolled himself into.

The first thing he sees is a coil of silvery hair. The next is Vicchan’s parted lips, centimeters from Yuuri’s face, sharing his pillow. 

Yuuri owes an apology to his blankets, which are right where they should be. The difficulty is, in fact, that Vicchan has crawled on top of them. At some point in the night, he’s crept onto Yuuri’s bed, atop the covers, and fallen asleep there. 

Two grown men can’t share a twin bed without some serious planning, but none of that has happened here. Instead, Vicchan has treated Yuuri as part of the mattress. His legs overlap Yuuri’s, tangled between them. His head rests on Yuuri’s pillow, and one arm dangles over the side of the bed, trailing the floor, but the other is outflung across Yuuri’s chest like a steel bar on a rollercoaster, pinning Yuuri firmly in place. 

Vicchan’s breath puffs across Yuuri’s cheek. On the inhale, he softly snores.

Several emotions clash within Yuuri at once. Irritation, fondness, and sympathy chase each other through his mind as he plays out what impulses must have driven Vicchan onto the bed. It can’t be coincidence that he’s crawled up from the floor on the first night after Victor’s arrival.

Knowing Vicchan, he won’t have slept well either. He can’t possibly be _comfortable_ the way he’s lying on top of Yuuri, twisted at the waist so his hips are pressed to the mattress but his torso lies on one side. Yuuri’s back is already aching at the thought.

He squirms again, looking for a way to slip free without waking Vicchan too much, but those long legs have him pinned, and when Yuuri rolls his shoulders, Vicchan’s grip on his bicep tightens. 

There’s a little _ah_ , an intake of breath, and like that Vicchan is awake, blue eyes slitted in confusion at his surroundings, Yuuri’s face a hair’s breadth from his own. Those eyes widen rapidly, and Yuuri can see his thought process as Vicchan slowly understands where he is and why he’s there. For a second, he looks ashamed. Then, his eyes dart to the closed bedroom door, and his breath hitches again, remembering what had driven him into the bed to begin with.

Yuuri can see the apprehension, feel the tension coil in the muscles draped across him, and he knows that feeling all too well. Unable to reach out to break Vicchan from the spiral, Yuuri moves the only part of his body that isn’t trapped. 

Sliding across the pillow, he bumps his forehead up against Vicchan’s. “Hey,” he whispers. Those blue eyes flash back to him, away from the door, away from the worries. Good. “It’s going to be okay,” Yuuri promises. “I’ll protect you.” 

He has to look away then at the emotion that crests on Vicchan’s face. Yuuri tells himself that he doesn’t know what it is, because it’s always so much easier to lie to himself than it is to tell the truth.

“We’re going to keep him away from here,” Yuuri continues. “I’ll have someone bring you breakfast later, when it’s safe for you to come out.” 

Vicchan nods. Their foreheads, still pressed together, morph the gesture into a nuzzle. Breakfast is calling, and then training, but Yuuri lets his eyes close for a few more minutes.

-

When Yuuri, dressed but with his hair still flat on one side from the pillow, ventures into the kitchen, he finds Victor already seated at the table, scarfing down omelet with ketchup and chattering away at Hiroko. Aware that she can’t understand him anyway, he’s speaking Russian rather than English, and there’s a charming grin spread across his features as he prattles on cheerfully. Hiroko smiles and nods along as needed, playing the game of politeness.

At the sound of Yuuri’s entrance, Victor stops speaking, turning to include him in the smile, and Yuuri fights to force himself to mirror it. His Russian has never been great, but he caught a few words in there -- mostly words he overheard Mila Babicheva use when she fell unexpectedly in a program. He’s not sure of the meaning, but he expects they aren’t _nice_ words, no matter what tone Victor says them with.

“Good morning, Yuuri,” Victor calls pleasantly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. Good morning, Mama.” Yuuri slides into his chair, and his mother promptly delivers him breakfast. There’s a third place set at the table, and only then does Yuuri notice his sister is in the room as well -- silent, her back pressed to the wall, arms folded and openly scowling at their guest.

Mari has never been one to trust strange men.

“Good morning,” Yuuri tells her quietly, and she nods but doesn’t speak.

“Well?” Victor scoops up a forkful of egg and dances it in a spiral through the ketchup still on his plate. “Have you considered my offer, then?”

Yuuri’s omelette has a heart drawn on it with ketchup. When he presses into it with his chopsticks, it bleeds. “Yes,” he says quietly, watching the rivulets of red sink into his food. “I’d like to accept.”

Victor slaps his open palm on the table. “Perfect,” he says, grinning with many teeth. “Yuuri, you won’t regret this.”

A dish clatters as Mari pushes away from the kitchen wall and snatches it off the counter. Her face is stone-set determination.

“Where are you going?” Yuuri asks before it clicks that she may be getting ready to take a meal to Vicchan.

But when she turns to answer him, it’s not a happy breakfast plate with a smiley-face omelette and fruit in her hands. “I’m going to try to clean up your mess,” Mari answers in biting Japanese. She’s holding the wide dish their mother prefers to use for offerings to the family shrine, and it’s piled high with enough food to feed two Vicchans. 

Mari leaves without another word, and Yuuri returns to playing with his breakfast, frowning as he makes new designs in the ketchup. Though few words had been exchanged on it, the fact that his family is preparing so many offerings speaks volumes. To increase what they offer so drastically, his sister -- and maybe even his parents -- must think Yuuri’s actions might be offending something… or that they need to ward off a terrible future on the horizon.

Either way, it makes the skin on his back prickle. His appetite leaves him, and he only finishes half his breakfast, leaving an untouched pile of shredded egg in a pool of red sauce.

The moment Yuuri pushes his plate away, Victor rises, arms overhead to stretch his back. “We should get started,” he announces. “We’ll run to the rink. That can be your warmup. Then, I want to see what you can do.” He finishes the sentence with a wink and a smirk, as if he intends for far more than a sampling of Yuuri’s jumps. Heat floods back to Yuuri’s cheeks as Victor sweeps out of the room, down the hall to gather his things. 

Yuuri stands to follow him, but lingers by the table, watching his mama’s shoulders work as she washes their dishes for the morning. “Make sure Vicchan eats enough,” he says, soft although Victor is far out of hearing.

Hiroko pauses, then nods before resuming her scrubbing. Yuuri knows she would have done it anyway, but it makes him feel better to ask.

The run is disgusting. Yesterday’s snow has finished melting, turning the earth into sludge, and there are puddles of rainbow-sheened oil mixed with melt in the roads. Yuuri’s running shoes have mesh at the toes, and the street soup finds its way through the gaps, soaking his socks with cold, filthy runoff. 

When they arrive at the rink, Yuuri is already breathing heavily. His toes are stiff from the weather, and he’s worn thinner than usual from straining to keep up with Victor’s longer stride. 

The other man doesn’t even seem to be sweating despite the extra weight of an equipment bag slung over his shoulders. As Yuuri breathes, bent double with hands on his knees outside Ice Castle, Victor bursts through the doors, flinging both wide. 

It’s not until he throws them open that Yuuri remembers -- _Yuuko_. Still panting, he scrambles after Victor, hurling himself ahead in a desperate surge of energy. 

Behind the front counter, Yuuko looks up from the register with a bright smile. “Good morning, Yuuri! And--”

“Wow,” Victor interjects. “So much enthusiasm for training, Yuuri. I hope you can keep up with me.”

Yuuko’s eyes blow wide at the sound of his voice. She looks Victor over from head to foot, taking in the differences in seconds. Her lips part, and Yuuri raises his hands, gesturing frantically, silently, in the hope he can stave off questions. 

Luckily for him, Yuuko doesn’t ask about Victor. Instead, she faints. 

The collapse is slow enough that Yuuri can see it coming. Her eyes roll upward, her head lolls, and by the time she begins to fold in on herself, he’s already vaulted the counter. He catches her by both shoulders, supporting her head with his chest, and slowly lowers her the rest of the way to the tile. 

Victor, leaning over the counter, peers down at them with a sort of flat, curious disinterest. 

“She’s… a big fan of yours,” Yuuri explains, and Victor’s lips bend upward. 

“I see. Well, we can’t waste training time. Come find me on the ice after you’ve finished here. Perhaps later she can bring me something to sign without losing consciousness.” Hauling his duffel higher, Victor breezes into the rink, leaving Yuuri behind the counter, hovering over Yuuko’s limp body, his knees pressed to the unyielding floor.

Yuuko wakes less than a minute later. Her return is much less gradual -- Yuuri sees her eyes flutter briefly, then, they shoot open. He puts his hands on her shoulders, worried otherwise that she’ll sit straight up and pass out yet again.

“ _Victor_ ,” she whispers, staring up at Yuuri in awe. She puts her hands over his, pressing them into her shoulders hard. “Yuuri… Am I dreaming? Was that _actually_ Victor Nikiforov?”

“Seems like it,” Yuuri says. As he watches, Yuuko’s expression falls. Her brow furrows as everything knits together in her head.

Yuuko pushes to sit up, and Yuuri, pulling his hands back into his lap, lets her do it. “But, if that’s Victor, then Vicc--”

“Shhh.” Yuuri darts a glance at the rink doors. They’re closed, and presumably Victor is somewhere out there, lacing on his skates or testing out the ice. He shouldn’t be able to hear them, but an abundance of caution is better than none at all. “We’re not talking about him with Victor around. I’m really not sure what’s going on, but… You can ask me more later, if you need to.”

Yuuko nods, but the stormy expression gathering between her eyes doesn’t disperse. “If you need anything--”

“I’ll shout for you,” Yuuri promises. He winces as he stands, back and knees twinging from being bent over the floor so soon after his run. He pulls his arms back, stretching to pull the tight muscles back into place, and he keeps the warmup going as he heads to the locker rooms to get changed.

When he emerges from the lockers out to the ice, Victor is already on the surface, lounging back with his elbows on the boards and hips thrust forward. Yuuri’s skate guards echo in the empty rink when he walks, and Victor turns toward the noise. 

Those ice blue eyes collide with Yuuri’s own, and he feels a familiar rush of nerves that begins like a stone dropped into his stomach, then radiates out to the tips of his fingers. This isn’t competition, it’s practice, but _Victor_ is watching, and Yuuri’s insides freeze solid at the thought.

“Finally,” Victor says. “Come join me.”

It’s all Yuuri can do to stop his hands from shaking as he balances on one foot to remove his guards. _Why did I think I could handle this?_ he asks himself, frantic even in his own head. His life right now is already so complicated, and here he is trying to start training, not with any new coach, but his _idol._ Yuuko had the right idea, passing out. Maybe he can get a head injury and avoid skating a few more days.

He makes it onto the rink, feeling wobbly but taking deep, steady breaths in a painful attempt to center himself. He’s never found it to actually work in the moment, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

Victor nods, unfolds his arms, and gestures out at the expanse of empty ice. “Okay. Start by showing me which quads you can do.”

Oh no. Yuuri thought his guts had frozen before. Now, they’re stone. “What?” He can’t have heard that right.

“Your quads.” Victor nods to the ice. “I want to see which ones you have. You can start with whichever is easiest for you.”

“But I uhh,” Yuuri pauses to lick his lips, mind reeling. Had Victor ever seen him skate at all? Had he done any research on Yuuri whatsoever? Surely he knew-- Unless he thought Yuuri was hiding some skills he’d never used in competition? “I can only do the toe loop. I mean, that’s the only one I’ve ever landed. Celestino and I had tried the salchow a few times, but outside of the harness I…” 

He trails off when Victor purses his lips. His arms are folded again, and the fingers of his right arm drum his left bicep. “Very well, then. Start with the toe loop, then show me the others.” Yuuri starts to protest, to point out he hasn’t practiced a quad in weeks, but Victor cuts him off, tone sharp. “You can’t land what you haven’t tried. Obviously.”

 _Obviously_ Yuuri’s mind echoes, dazed. He wants to put his foot down and say no. This isn’t how training works. Yuuri’s no coach, but he knows that much, knows that doing quads he hasn’t trained for could spell injury -- _career ending injury_ , even -- or at the very least will damage his confidence even more when he inevitably fails them.

But Victor is watching him, expectant, and isn’t this what Yuuri wanted? He needs to try something different from what he’s done in the past if he wants to grow, and Victor is _the best_.

So Yuuri ignores the sanest voice inside his head shouting at him that this isn’t right, that there’s no way this is how Victor trains under Yakov Feltsman, and he skates out, circumnavigating the rink to build speed, and tries not to think at all beyond a checklist of what he needs to do to set up the jump.

It’s not his worst quad toe. He doesn’t rotate fully, but he lands on one foot and manages not to fall. It could be worse. Victor says nothing.

The rest is a menagerie of disaster. Yuuri lands on his knee, his back, and of course, his butt. Each fall hits a little harder than the one before it, jolting through old bruises and layering new pain on top of them. The worst, the very worst of all, is Yuuri’s attempt at a quad flip. Though he hadn’t mentioned it to Victor before, he _had_ practiced it once or twice with Phichit. He’s never landed it on a single leg before, but he’s gotten close -- close enough that Phichit had shouted and dashed across the ice, grinning, to spin Yuuri around in a triumphant hug.

This time, he falls back. This is the one that sends him sprawling, skipping like a stone on a lake as he lands on first his butt, then his back, arms pinwheeling in the cold air as the hard ice punches the breath from his lungs.

There’s no echoing gasp at the fall, no sound of blades rushing across the ice to check on him. Yuuri lets his head fall to the side, the skin of his cheek sticking to the rink, and squints over at where Victor is still waiting. It might just be Yuuri’s poor vision, but Victor doesn’t seem concerned at all. He looks annoyed. Annoyed and bored.

“Triple axel,” he calls across the ice, not moving from the sidelines. He mutters something low in Russian. The words don’t carry across the rink, and Yuuri finds he’s grateful for that. 

The axel has always been one of his best jumps, though. If Yuuri’s going to get anything back without serious practice, it will be this, so he dusts himself off and gets back to his feet. His body aches, but Yuuri rolls his shoulders, shakes out his hands, and skates unsteadily forward. He settles into his strokes. Gradually, he gathers speed, then leaps into his axel with a great deal more confidence than he had on any of the quads.

He nails it.

Well, it’s not his _best_ triple axel ever -- Yuuko could probably recount better than he can exactly which competition he performed best at, as well as which scored the highest -- but he’s not on the ground. It’s his best jump today by far, and he’s smiling for the first time as he skates over to where Victor is waiting, hoping to get close enough to see a smile or hear a bit of encouragement.

Victor skates to meet him, and Yuuri’s heart rate increases at the sight of those pure, smooth strokes across the ice. The amount of coverage Victor gets with so little movement -- it’s insane. 

Yuuri knows the jump wasn’t perfect, but he watches Victor approach, expecting a “well done” or “much better,” or at least a “thank you” after all the humiliation he just put Yuuri through.

Instead, the first words out of Victor’s mouth are, “Your free leg is sloppy.” 

Yuuri deflates, not even conscious of what Victor’s saying as he sweeps his own leg back and forth, apparently demonstrating the terrible form which was so distracting to him that he has nothing to say about the other elements of the jump. 

“From the hip, not the _knee_ ,” Victor says, and reaches forward to clamp both hands on Yuuri’s hip, tugging at his thigh. Yuuri swings his leg obediently and tries not to feel so much like a horse lifting a foot for the farrier. 

Victor’s lips purse. “Better.” He straightens and glides forward, hand at the center of Yuuri’s chest.

 _How did he get so close?_ Yuuri asks himself with a thread of panic. Their faces are mere centimeters apart, and this near he can see the shards of grey in Victor’s irises, the silver peeking through his lashes where his mascara wand had missed. _Since when does Victor wear mascara outside of competition?_

They sway together, breath mingling at center ice though Yuuri is trying his best not to breathe at all -- and failing, again. Then, Victor tilts his head.

Yuuri jerks back, and his butt collides with the damp ice with a thud that lights up every bruise on his body. He never knew so much of him could wince at once.

“Hmm,” Victor stares down at Yuuri’s undignified splay through a veil of silver, his face impassive. “If you’re that tired already, then take a break. I’ll show you what I have in mind for our future practices. Then you’ll know what we’re working toward.”

“Okay. I guess I am a little worn out. Thank you.” Slowly, Yuuri pushes himself back to his feet. His thighs feel like stone, and he can sense a lot of stretching and baths in his future -- both the hot sort and the kind that’s more like ice cube soup. He takes his time skating over to the boards and rests against them, facing the rink. Across the ice, he can see Yuuko watching from the office window. He waves.

Victor takes center ice, and, as ever, Yuuri’s attention is pulled toward him. The starting position is unfamiliar -- arms straight down at Victor’s sides, head bowed. _What program is this? Something new?_ His pulse races at the thought that he might be among the first people ever to witness a program Victor has never performed at competition. 

“No music, though,” Yuuri murmurs to himself. That shouldn’t be a problem for Victor, who undoubtedly knows the cues of the song by heart, but it will lose some impact for Yuuri, who can’t hear the swells and falls of the unknown melody. Still, he thrills again at the idea that this may be his first time to see this program, but it won’t be the last -- not with Victor here _coaching_ him.

With a sharp twist, Victor begins to skate, and Yuuri watches, astonished.

Victor Nikiforov has always surprised him. Since that very first day that Yuuri saw him skate to Junior Worlds gold, Victor’s career has been filled with unexpected choices. But, even with all that history, this program is something Yuuri never saw coming.

There are some pivots and kicks thrown out, careless, here and there as Victor traverses the rink, covering the ice with inhuman swiftness, but little else. Victor’s arms are stiff at his sides, his eyes steely as he darts to one corner, turns, and sets up his first jump.

It’s a _textbook_ quad lutz, probably the best Victor’s ever done it. His blades barely make a sound as he lands, light, free leg poised. As quickly as he sets down, he’s off again, darting to another corner, and this time it’s a combination quad toe, triple loop. The flow between the two is so seamless, it looks like one jump, and Yuuri gasps out loud. 

The next side of the rink, the next jump: quad loop. A small circle to the center of the rink again, and a triple axel out of nowhere. Each jump is breathtaking, the takeoffs and landings unbelievably clean, and the sheer height and coverage on them is just… Yuuri is running out of other words to use when what he wants to say is perfect, perfect, perfect.

His face aches as he watches, and he reaches up to rub his cheek and feels the folds there. He’s _frowning_.

As soon as he notices it, he also knows why. While the jumps are impressive, everything between them is an afterthought. The choreography may as well not be there, and the feeling is absent. Yuuri tries to blame some of that on the lack of music or the novelty of the program, but his heart is sinking slowly to his feet. 

The Victor who Yuuri grew up watching would never create a program like this. The emotion, the artistry would always come first, and the jumps were simply icing on an already incredible presentation. 

Though Victor’s jumps now are astounding, the skater Yuuri’s watching today isn’t the same athlete he once fell in love with.

When the program finishes, Yuuri pastes on a smile and claps while Victor bows, but when his cheers echo and bounce back to him off the rafters, he can hear how hollow they are inside.

They spend another hour or so at practice, but Yuuri is out of shape, already tired and sore from his warm-up and the many failed quads Victor had asked of him, and it soon becomes clear that nothing he can do today will please Victor. When his new coach calls the day over earlier than Yuuri had expected, it’s a sweet relief.

They walk home, and every step is a slog. Yuuri’s body is aching through to his bones, and each time his foot touches the pavement, that soreness radiates through him. The journey takes twice as long as normal at Yuuri’s pace, and he can’t blame Victor for getting frustrated, breaking away at the sight of the sign above Minako’s that unmistakably reads, BAR.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Victor promises, but his steps are already turned toward the promise of something stronger than the Katsuki family’s preferred brand of beer. Maybe Yuuri should protest, try to keep an eye on Victor, but he knows his mother already called Minako and told her everything. If anyone will be ready and able to keep a very sharp eye on a foreign figure skater, it’s Minako.

The front entrance to Yu-topia looms large in Yuuri’s sight as he turns down that last road home, and that dangling carrot fires up a second wind inside him. His pace quickens, some of the ache ebbing away as he approaches the warm finish line of _home_. By the time he reaches the front gate, he’s practically jogging, and he doesn’t stop when he hits the first step.

He hops over the second step, ignoring his papa’s call of hello, and vaults straight into the house. The patrons in the dining room all look up as Yuuri passes through, carrying the spring wind in his wake, and he’s gone just as quickly. 

Down the hall, up the stairs, and in the final stretch he finally slows, careful and quiet as he approaches his bedroom door. It slides back silently, and Yuuri has a brief moment to absorb the sight of Vicchan inside, pacing the little space with arms clasped behind his back, before the open door is noticed. 

Vicchan raises his head and whips around to face Yuuri. His lower lip trembles, a warning herald of tears, but they never touch his cheeks. Yuuri is across the bedroom in two long strides, and he flings himself into Vicchan’s arms, echoing back every ounce of gratitude, desperation, and relief with which Vicchan holds him. 

His grip is so tight, forearms crisscrossed over Vicchan’s back, that he can feel the knobs of the other man’s spine as Vicchan’s fingertips press beneath Yuuri’s shoulderblades like his ribs are piano keys. 

“It won’t be forever,” Yuuri promises, lips pressed to the tender skin and downy hair on Vicchan’s neck. “I need to try this for a little while, but it won’t be forever.”

Vicchan’s shoulders are shaking, but there are no tears in his eyes when Yuuri eases back. He cups Vicchan’s face in his hand, stroking his thumb across one soft cheek, and searches warm blue eyes, diving for clues at the emotions lurking within their depths.

Those same eyes flicker, drop, focus falling, and Yuuri sucks in a shuddering breath at the realization that Vicchan is not merely looking down. He’s looking at _Yuuri’s lips_ , yearning eyes with a singular focus, and their faces are so close, Vicchan’s cheek already pressed to Yuuri’s hand. It’s so easy to sway forward that Yuuri does it without thinking, a part of him pulled taut by the call of Vicchan’s gaze.

Vicchan tilts his head, a few strands of silver falling loose over one eye, and Yuuri has a sudden flash of -- _Victor on the ice, too close, cold eyes looming as he closes in_ \--

Yuuri’s hand falls. He forces himself to look away at his blank bedroom walls, trying to ignore the heat suffusing his cheeks at how close they came. He can’t. He can’t reject Victor on one hand, jerk away from unwanted kisses, and then force the same on Vicchan behind closed doors. 

“Just a few days,” Yuuri says, still staring at the wall. “If the rest of it is anything like today, it won’t be long at all.” 

The only sound Vicchan answers with is a deep and shaking inhale.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very early chapter drop because I'm bored and messy today

The rest of Victor’s training strategy is _exactly_ like the first day. Yuuri aches the second morning, suddenly aware of muscles he must not have used in half a decade. When he strips off his boxers to shower and catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror, his finds his body littered with bruises from the previous day’s falls. The worst one is on his butt, curving toward his hip like a mottled, purple and red hand. Flinching, Yuuri ices it at breakfast, holding the pack in place with one elbow, eating with the other hand, and trying to drown out both Victor’s stream of chatter and the sharp pressure of his sister’s watchful eyes.

Practice is no better. It’s bruises on top of bruises until Yuuri goes numb to the falls, doesn’t notice the biting cold of the ice when his palms smack into it again and again. He hits the ground and only thinks to get back up as soon as he can, though his body aches in protest. 

When he returns home each evening, exhausted and feeling like shattered glass, it’s back to his room and back into the arms of a frazzled Vicchan, where they both try to put their jagged pieces back together. A dip in the onsen might help Yuuri heal, but it’s not safe for Vicchan to join him in the baths anymore, and once he’s home, he can’t so easily step away from the other man. 

Vicchan whines, clinging to Yuuri’s back, and buries his face in Yuuri’s neck, and every time Yuuri noses into his hair, inhaling the scents of his own shampoo and detergent, and he thinks, _I can’t do this again tomorrow. In the morning, I’ll quit._

But he doesn’t quit. 

He crawls into bed after dinner, and Vicchan no longer waits for the lamp to flicker out before joining him, squirming under the sheets and wrapping his leg over Yuuri’s, his fingers over Yuuri’s heart, both their heads resting on a single pillow. It shouldn’t be comfortable, and technically it _isn’t_ , but just as Yuuri can’t turn away Victor’s coaching, he can’t bring himself to say no to this either. When summer hits in earnest maybe it will be less pleasant to sleep with a living heater wrapped around him, but with the cool night breeze of spring drifting through his open window, it feels like home.

Then, he wakes up in the morning to a too-early alarm and pries himself free of Vicchan’s grasp to go suffer again. And the craziest thing about Victor’s training method is, well, it seems to be working.

Victor arrives in Hasetsu on a Saturday. By Tuesday, Yuuri has landed his quad toe again for the first time in weeks. On Thursday, right before lunch, he manages a shaky, underrotated quad sal.

If Yuuri were still training in Detroit, his effort would be met with screams of celebration from his rinkmates and a congratulatory back slap from his coach. Victor, leaning up against the boards with his arms folded, merely nods.

“Almost,” he says, and gestures to the ice. “Now do it again.”

It’s a taste of something Yuuri hasn’t had in a long time. His level of effort is brutal, unsustainable, but he’s being rewarded with progress like he hasn’t seen in at least a couple seasons. 

When he’d first moved to America, to Celestino, his jumps had grown quickly as his body settled in development. His second season in Detroit, he’d debuted his quad toe, and he’d started training the salchow. He’d been certain, then, that he’d add it to his programs in no time. Three more years passed, and he’d never achieved that goal. 

Getting a spark of development again is even more addictive than he remembers. Despite the pain, despite knowing that it upsets Vicchan, Yuuko, and his family to have Victor around, Yuuri is selfish in this. He keeps coming back to suffer again. 

On Friday morning, he wakes up cool, comfortable, and utterly alone.

There’s no arm flung across his body, no leg entwined with his own, no weight pinning him to the mattress. Yuuri rolls onto his side, his searching gaze falling to the floor, but Vicchan’s old bed is neatly made and empty. He’s gone.

Yuuri leaps from the bed, throwing his sheets up against the wall, and wrenches the door open, checking the hallway for a tell-tale sliver of yellow light at the base of the bathroom door. The bathroom stands open, dark and empty. No Vicchan. No Vicchan _anywhere_.

Back into his room, Yuuri gets dressed hurriedly, not even bothering to turn on the lamp. He wrestles with his leggings, which don’t want to release his socked foot, and hears the crotch seam groan, then give. _Damn_. He doesn’t have time to change, though. Pulling on a t-shirt, he throws his team jacket over it, zipped to the throat, and only hopes the tear in his pants won’t be noticeable. 

On his way out, he pauses long enough to stick his head into the kitchen, which smells of fresh eggs and sweet cut fruits. His mama smiles wide, calling with bright eyes, “Good morning, Yuuri. Breakfast is nearly ready!” 

Victor, lounging at the table with his legs stuck out so far his feet emerge on the other side, raises his silver head from his tea with a slight smile imprisoned on his lips. “Good morning. You’re up early.”

“Yeah.” Yuuri didn’t think this through. He hadn’t expected to find Victor in the kitchen already, and hadn’t prepared an excuse. “Um. I’m not hungry.” His mama’s smile falls at that, and Yuuri suppresses his instinctive urge to change his mind, to reassure her. “I’m going to get an early start on my warmup instead,” he tells Victor, hoping the story holds. “I’ll meet you at the rink.”

Just in case, he gives Victor no chance to protest or volunteer to join him. Without another word, Yuuri turns and jogs to the door. There are two pairs of running shoes in his cubbies -- one pair, barely broken in, were specially picked to provide the arch support he needs for daily runs. The others, two years old, make his right hip ache if he runs in them for more than a few meters, but their structure is battered, worn, and soft. He can put them on without stopping to untie them. He grabs those.

Victor _does_ shout something from the kitchen, but Yuuri pretends not to hear as he steps into the worn shoes. Sliding the door open, he takes off at a sprint.

It’s not safe for Vicchan to be outside alone. No one in town would hurt him, of course, but there’s Victor to consider, and with the way Vicchan has reacted to him so far, Yuuri doesn’t want to find out what would happen if the two met face to face. 

Since Vicchan arrived, Yuuri’s done far more reading than he ever expected to about body doubles. In some versions of the folklore, doppelgangers must fight to the death if they ever meet. Yuuri can’t envision Victor and Vicchan physically fighting one another, but, at the same time, he doesn’t want to take that risk.

And, with Vicchan still recovering from whatever he’s been through, Yuuri knows who would win if it happened.

He runs faster.

When Yuuri skids to a stop in the sand, he combs the beach with his eyes, searching not only the shore but the waves, a weight transforming into a gaping maw in his stomach at the image of a head of silver bobbing out among the breakers. But the only things being tossed about by the sea this morning are a few lazy seagulls, and the beach is empty of any life aside from scuttling crabs.

Yuuri stands frozen, but his mind is rushing. _Where else does Vicchan know to go?_ The answers come swiftly: the park where they’d visited the cherry blossoms, the market, Minako’s studio, Ice Castle.

He pats his jacket pocket, where he keeps his spare keys to both Minako’s place and the rink, but nothing jingles against his searching fingers. His keys are gone. 

That narrows his options to two, and Ice Castle is far closer to the beach than the ballet studio is. Turning on his toe in the sand, Yuuri lurches forward and resumes running.

His old shoes are wearing on him quickly, and each stride shoots a spark of protest through his hip. He’s going to regret his choice when -- if -- he trains today and has to land jumps on that leg, but it’s what he had to do. Vicchan’s safety comes first right now.

The doors of Ice Castle Hasetsu part beneath Yuuri’s hands, unlocked. His keyring -- the one with the plush poodle charm and a metal snowflake Yuuko gave him -- lies splayed across the front counter. He picks it up and tucks it back into his pocket, giving it a little pat to hear the jingle and remember it’s there.

It only takes a few strides for him to cross from the counter to the rinkside area, searching for Vicchan along the boards. His heart is pounding so loud in his ears that it takes him far too long to recognize the song of blades on ice.

Yuuri was searching so frantically along the rink’s edge that he missed the sway of motion on the ice itself. Vicchan must have crawled behind the front counter, borrowing a battered pair of black rental boots. They can’t possibly fit him right, but the subpar blade and poor structure doesn’t seem to phase him. 

He’s dancing across the ice in his own world, silver hair only half kept back in one of Mari’s spare scrunchies. There’s no method to his movement. He twists slowly, skating backward, then forward, switching to one foot for an abbreviated, shaking spiral. Here and there in the footwork Yuuri glimpses bits of familiar programs -- Victor’s old Lilac Fairy, Chris Giacometti’s Bolero, Georgi Popovich’s Vivaldi medley exhibition. The flashes are brief, segueing into one another and mixed with other movements he doesn’t recognize. They shouldn’t go together, but Vicchan’s movement is so smooth and elegant that the pieces flow into one another, making a whole of something entirely new.

Yuuri never knew that Vicchan could skate, never thought to ask if he wanted to join at practice, but now he can’t look away from the figure out on the ice, confident in spite of the shoddy rental boots. There’s no music playing, but Yuuri can hear a melody in the way Vicchan moves, his arms and eyes upturned, reaching for an unseen goal. 

There’s _love_ in Vicchan’s movements, and in his slow, simple spin, Yuuri sees a flash of something he recognizes -- the same type of skating that makes Yuuri’s heart pound harder and his breathing stop, the same quality that made him stare, wide-eyed, at a tiny screen in this building a decade ago and fall ever so slightly in love himself.

Behind him, a door _whoosh_ es open, and Yuuri whips around, heart in his throat at the thought that _Victor_ might walk in. But it’s not Victor, only Yuuko, and she too is fixated on Vicchan out on the ice.

“Oh wow,” Yuuko breathes, lips parted, and Yuuri thinks he can see the beginnings of tears in her wide eyes.

Yuuri turns back to the rink and watches as Vicchan leans into a brief, abbreviated ina bauer. It’s not flawless, but gorgeous nonetheless. “It’s not just me, right?” he whispers to Yuuko. “This is him. It has to be--”

The distinctive jingle of the bell above Ice Castle’s outer door interrupts them, and Yuuri freezes. It can’t be anyone else at this time of day.

“Vicchan!” He shouts, and Vicchan stops on a dime, flailing a bit at the arrested motion. “You need to leave -- now.” Turning to Yuuko, Yuuri can feel his pulse pound as if he’s stepping out onto competition ice. “Get him out of here,” he begs her. “Hide him, please. I’ll distract Victor.”

Yuuko nods and jogs toward the rink as Yuuri dashes for the front door.

He gets to the front desk just as Victor walks in, breezing past him with a, “Why aren’t you ready yet? Get your skates.” Yuuri flails to stop him, reaching out to block his way.

Victor does stop. His silvery brows slant with interest as he glances down, where both Yuuri’s palms are pressed flat against his chest. 

Yuuri jerks back, but not soon enough to avoid the itchy, hot memory of Victor’s muscle beneath his hands. He drops his eyes and curls his hands into fists, trying to push the feeling away. “Wait… just a second. Um. I-- I hardly got to see you at all this morning, so,” Yuuri can feel fire gathering in his ears, but he pushes past it, searching for words. “How was your sleep?”

“Lonely,” Victor purrs.

Yuuri screams on the inside. _Yuuko, where are you?_ It takes years of practiced willpower for him to resist turning away, looking back over his shoulder to see if Vicchan is safely hidden yet, but he has no way of knowing what’s happening in the rink without drawing Victor’s attention. He needs to buy more time. He can’t let Victor’s attention slip away.

He inches forward, taking a breath to steady himself for what he’s about to do. “You know I… missed you this morning.” Yuuri can’t bear to keep his eyes on Victor once those words leave his lips. He lets his gaze fall, hoping it will look more coy than avoidant. “I was hoping we could spend more time together outside practice.”

“Really.” Yuuri doesn’t need to look up. He can _hear_ the smirk in Victor’s voice. On the floor, Victor’s brilliant white running shoes edge toward Yuuri, the heat of his body radiating as he shifts into Yuuri’s space, setting off every alarm in his system. 

Victor’s nails need trimming. They scrape lines into the unprotected skin beneath Yuuri’s jaw when he grasps Yuuri’s chin, tilting his head up until their eyes meet again. “I’m sure we can arrange something tonight.”

He licks his lips. Yuuri turns his head, breaking both the stare and the grip on his chin with one move. _I can’t do this._ He shoots a desperate glance over to the ice, unable to help himself from looking now, and holds his breath.

The rink is empty. Yuuko and Vicchan made it out.

Victor sweeps past him, dropping his equipment bag onto a nearby bench with so little care it makes Yuuri wince. Celestino would have had him running laps for an hour if he ever tried to sling his bags around that way with skates inside, but Victor, blithe, merely drops onto the bench himself and then inclines his head toward the open space beside him.

“Well? Come get ready, since you haven’t yet. Unless you weren’t planning to skate today.” 

“No, um-- I’ll be right back.” Not waiting for permission, Yuuri heads for the locker room to retrieve his boots, his mind racing far ahead of his feet.

Vicchan is safe. With that worry aside, Yuuri’s thoughts now circle back to everything that happened before Victor walked in. Vicchan was _skating_ , and he’d done it with skill. Maybe, in the moment, Yuuri had been rash to declare that it meant he was the real Victor, but-- 

No. He shouldn’t second-guess himself. He can hear Minako’s voice in his head, and Celestino’s right after her, both of them reminding him: _Your instincts are good, Yuuri, if you could just indulge them sometimes…_

 _So, say my instinct here is right,_ he thinks as he digs through his locker, retrieving his boots and a spare water bottle. _Now this is simple math, isn’t it? I need to prove the theorem._

But how to prove Vicchan was the real Victor? Yuuri ponders the question, filling his water, and debates if he’ll tie his boots on here or rinkside. 

_If I can’t prove Vicchan is Victor, then maybe I can prove Victor… isn’t._ Yuuri pauses to let that idea marinate. He doesn’t know Victor -- the Victor from before all of this -- personally. When Victor acts cold or mechanical, all Yuuri has to compare that to are competition videos and media interviews, neither of which is a good indication of what someone is like off the ice, in private.

What Yuuri does know are _facts_ about Victor. He knows Victor’s blood type, his favorite jump, the name of his childhood imaginary friend. For years now, Yuuri has studied Victor with the dedication of a scholar pouring over ancient texts in a dead language. At last, it seems, all that data gathering that Mari and Nishigori once teased him over will come in handy after all.

Resolved, Yuuri picks up his skates and carries them with him out to the rink. Victor is already on the ice, slow strokes around the edge to warm himself up, and Yuuri sits down on the bench to take his sneakers off.

“Victor,” he says, trying to sound casual. “I was wondering. How many Grand Prix Finals have you won now?” 

It’s an easy question, basically a waltz jump, so it’s no surprise when even a fake Victor can land it. “Five.” He sounds bored, throwing the word out as he skates by, so Yuuri has to wait for him to come back around again for the next one.

“How old were you the first time you won Europeans?”

This time, Victor stops, tilting his head at Yuuri. “You’re meant to be getting ready, not interrogating me.”

“Sorry.” Yuuri doesn’t have to fake looking embarrassed. “It’s just… I’m trying to get to know you a little better, now that we’re going to see more of each other.”

Victor purses his lips for a moment as he considers this, then answers, “Eighteen. Ask anything you like, but put your skates on.”

“Right.” _Choose the questions carefully. He’s already suspicious._ “Where were you born?”

“St. Petersburg, of course.” Another easy one landed and he’s not even out of breath. It’s time to increase the difficulty a bit.

“Uhhh,” _What else can I ask?_ “How do you take your coffee?” Victor shoots him a look sharp as the gold blades on his feet. Yuuri shrugs, trying to project innocent curiosity. “Getting to know you,” he repeats as an excuse.

“I rarely drink coffee.” Victor glides to a stop by the boards and folds his arms. “But as a teenager I had a fondness for those very sugary iced Starbucks things, extra caramel and soy whipped cream.” He wrinkles his nose as if disgusted by the thought of his own immature taste buds. 

Yuuri bends down, ostensibly to tie his laces, but also to hide his face. Victor had landed a triple loop with that Starbucks question, and Yuuri is running out of material. This plan would have been better if he and Victor were friends. _Chris_ probably knows several of Victor’s secrets, things only the man himself would know. The problem with Yuuri’s selection, in-depth as it might be, is that it all comes from interviews. It’s not _impossible_ , then, for someone else to know these facts about Victor. After all, how else would Yuuri know them?

That question sparks something in his memory, tucked away long ago and nearly forgotten. Once, as a junior, Yuuri had been chosen for a special program by JSF. He and a few other lucky teenagers had been transported, all expenses paid, to Tokyo for the debut performance of a brand new ice show. 

One of the skaters that night had been Victor, still sporting his long hair for one last season, even more dazzling in person than he’d been on TV. After the group opening number, Victor had a solo performance choreographed to Gackt’s “Vanilla,” and that was… something. There had been a very shiny pair of pleather pants involved. Yuuri doesn’t remember a lot more about it. He may have blacked out.

Regardless, the performance caused quite a stir that first night -- enough of a stir, in fact, that it hadn’t happened again. The next day, Victor’s first solo was replaced by his previous season’s exhibition program, and “Vanilla” had never made it back into the public eye. It had also never been filmed. The only people aware the program existed beyond rumors on the internet were those who were in the arena that day, of which, Yuuri is one.

He finishes tying his laces and stands, hands curled into fists at his side. He meets Victor’s eyes as he asks, “During the _Phoenix Of Winter_ ice show in 2008, you had a special performance on the first night in Tokyo. You never skated to that song again, as far as I know. Do you remember what it was?”

“So long ago,” Victor complains. Planting his hands on his hips, he tosses his hair back. “How am I supposed to remember one night from nearly ten years ago now?” 

Oh. It’s a fair question. The program had stuck out to Yuuri because it was monumental in the course of his life -- his first time visiting Tokyo without his family, his first time seeing Victor in person -- but to Victor himself, it was only one ice show in dozens. 

Yuuri’s getting ready to apologize for the odd question when Victor taps his chin with one finger. “Wait, it was some Japanese pop song, right? The title was something about a flavor… ‘Chocolate’?”

“Vanilla,” Yuuri murmurs, shocked.

“‘Vanilla!’ That’s right. It was some choreographer’s idea, not really my style.”

Yuuri stares at the floor, struggling not to look disappointed in front of Victor. He’d been so certain after seeing Vicchan skate. Naively, he’d even thought he held the key to Victor’s identity. Stupid. Victor’s surpassed Yuuri’s every expectation, surprising him once again with such ease.

He can’t question any more. He’s out of tricks, and Victor had met every challenge Yuuri threw at him. Victor knows even more details that Yuuri would expect, and Vicchan? Vicchan can’t even tell Yuuri his real name.

 _Maybe Nishigori was right all along, and Vicchan is some type of backup Victor clone,_ Yuuri thinks, though he’s screaming at himself for even considering it. _Trained for years to skate in Victor’s place, at last he broke free of the shady government officials who raised him and fled..._

_To Hasetsu?_

Yuuri shakes his head. Nishigori _really_ watches too many bad movies.

“Are we done now with twenty questions?” Yuuri’s head snaps up. Victor is still standing by the boards, arms folded, his fingers tapping at his own forearm. “You should be skating already.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry, Coach.” Yuuri bows slightly as he stands, hands clasped in front of him. Victor is right this time for sure -- Yuuri _should_ be skating.

“Warm up quickly, then show me your quad loop.”

Yuuri sucks in a breath and steps onto the ice, removing his skate guards to stack them on the boards beside Victor. He keeps his eyes on his feet, afraid to see suspicion in Victor’s grey-blue eyes. 

_The loop. Okay._ He may as well get it over with. He’s never landed it yet, not even remotely. Victor’s one of only three men in the international scene to even attempt a quad loop in competition, and Lee Sueng-gil is the only other person who’s landed it. Not long after Lee had ratified the jump, Yuuri had watched an interview he gave about it. 

“How do you manage to execute such a difficult jump?” the Korean reporter asked. 

“I do a triple loop,” Lee replied, deadpan. “Then, I go around another time.”

 _So helpful_ , Yuuri thinks, internally rolling his eyes even as he strokes across the ice, warming up his legs and swinging his arms. _But nothing I wouldn’t expect from him._

It’s definitely not the worst advice Yuuri’s heard on how to skate. He knows how to land a triple loop, after all, and maybe that’s really the most important factor.

Yuuri can jump quads.

Yuuri can jump loops.

So, why not both?

 _At least it’s not the stupidest idea you’ve had today,_ he reminds himself, even as he sets up for the jump. _Backwards crossovers. Free foot held up. Okay, now -- try not to hit your head when you fall_.

He takes off, eyes half-closed, straight in the air as he’s ever been, and--

 _Oh._ His blade touches ice. He sweeps the free leg back. _I… I did it_?

Bewildered, Yuuri skids to a stop. A slow, deliberate beat echoes off the rafters of Ice Castle. 

Across the rink, Victor is clapping. After a few, he stops, hands back on his hips, “A little off on the rotation still, I think. Again.”

Swallowing, Yuuri nods. Again. 

-

For once, Yuuri is lucky after practice. He has no need to make excuses to Victor about where he’s going, because Victor announces he’s going to get a drink the moment they walk out the door. Yuuri merely has to wish him a good time and walk for a few minutes in the direction of Yu-Topia. Once Victor is safely out of sight, Yuuri veers away.

He’d finished practice to find Nishigori at the front desk instead of Yuuko. “She had to run home to look after the girls,” the man explained, his thick eyebrows raised toward his hairline. 

Yuuri would have to be much more dense to miss the message in that. He’ll need to make a stop on his way home.

When he reaches the Nishigori family’s front gate, he can already hear the screaming. He winces with his hand on the latch and tries to steel himself, but there’s little he can do to prepare. Teenagers and grown men, Yuuri can handle. Young girls? Just as much a mystery to him now as they were when _he_ was that age.

The door opens beneath his hand. He’d half expected a bedraggled mess, but if anything Yuuko looks _better_. Her hair is down, still damp from a shower, and there’s a steaming cup of green tea in one hand. At the sight of Yuuri, her face falls. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to go back and practice another hour or so?” she asks with a wheedling tone. “I haven’t gotten this much of a break since the last time we had grandparents over.”

Glancing over her shoulder, Yuuri has a straight view into the main room of the family home. The table in the living room is laid out with a cloth covering. A traditional tea pot sits at the center, small matching cups scattered all around. Axel, Lutz, and Loop are kneeling on three sides, and at the center of the tableau, also kneeling with a cup in his hand, is Vicchan.

He’s wearing a tiara. There are pink feathers on it.

“Drink your tea,” one of the girls says to Vicchan. (Yuuri, honestly, can’t tell them apart.) He nods, though he can’t possibly understand what she’s saying, and when she mimes raising the cup to her lips, he mimics her.

Yuuri coughs lightly into his hand, and Vicchan looks up. As soon as he sees Yuuri in the door, he lights up, stumbling to his feet. His tea cup sloshes -- only water -- spilling onto the table, and the girls all dive to sop it up with their color-coordinated dresses.

The tiara isn’t Vicchan’s only decoration, Yuuri sees now. Two thick, sloppy braids frame either side of his face, and Yuuri would guess there’s a third in there somewhere. 

Yuuko takes a sip of her tea. “Seriously,” she murmurs. “If you ever want to loan him out again, just say the word, please. Preferably for several hours next time.”

Vicchan takes a step toward the door, his blue eyes sparkling, but that’s as far as he gets. A limpet in a pink dress has thrown herself onto his leg. She’s quickly joined by the other two, all three of the girls working together in an attempt to bring Vicchan back down to their level. 

Smiling, he staggers theatrically side to side before falling back, his movement halting to give the kids time to move aside. He lands with a _whump_ on the sofa, and the triplets pile on immediately, little arms wrapping around any limb they can reach, pleading with him to, “ _Stay, onii-san, stay! The tea ceremony barely started!_ ”

“Well, it looks like he had a good time,” Yuuri tells Yuuko, chuckling. “So maybe you’ll get your wish.”

“The girls would love that.” Yuuko smiles softly toward the living room, where her little demons are all still swarming a helpless, happy Vicchan. It strikes Yuuri directly in the chest, how _motherly_ she looks. Before he left for Detroit, Yuuri had only glimpses of that in Yuuko’s smiles, the warm affection with which she’d laid a hand on the small, developing roundness of her abdomen. Yuuri had watched her pregnancy and the girls growing from across an ocean, and it’s one thing to understand, distantly, that his childhood friend has kids of her own. It’s another thing to see her like this -- relaxed, fond, happy, and looking every bit like _someone’s mother_.

“Yuuri, about the rink today…” The hesitation in Yuuko’s voice snaps him right back into the present. She’s still watching the tableau in the front room, where Vicchan is carefully trying to extricate himself from the pile of kids, but her smile has faded now. “Maybe it would better if Vicchan stayed here.”

“What? With you?” There’s a kneejerk reaction in him that wants to scream, _No!_ but if nothing else, Yuuri excels at questioning his own instincts.

“Or somewhere else, if that works better. Does Minako-sensei have room?” She shakes her head, knowing full well even as she asks that Minako doesn’t share her space well. “What happened this morning is going to happen again. Vicchan and Victor are both staying with you, and now they’re both going to the rink, too. You can’t keep them hidden from each other forever, least of all in the same house. What are you going to do if they collide?”

“I don’t know,” Yuuri admits, and then, because honesty is a river undammed, he adds, “I have no idea what I’m doing at all.”

There’s a little line at the center of Yuuko’s forehead that he knows means she’s worried. It’s the same line that appeared when he told her he’d be competing at the Junior Grand Prix, the same line as when he announced he’d be moving to Detroit.

Vicchan, free at last of the clinging triplets, shuffles over to them. His hand finds Yuuri’s immediately, naturally, and he lowers his head to rest his forehead against Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri squeezes his fingers, resisting the urge to pull away as Yuuko glances down where their hands have joined. 

“I appreciate your help, and I know you’re concerned about us, but…” Yuuri takes a deep breath and feels Vicchan’s nose, warm and insistent, nudging into his collarbone. “Letting Vicchan be away from me just isn’t an option.”

“I see.” Yuuko tilts her head, considering. In the living room, a discussion among Axel, Lutz, and Loop has devolved into a squabble, and their voices are rising in pitch, but Yuuko doesn’t seem to have noticed. “Be safe,” she says, almost inaudible above the din of children, and Yuuri squeezes Vicchan’s fingers again.

“We will be.”

The walk back to Yu-topia is quiet. Vicchan and Yuuri’s strides sync, and their hands never part. Even when a cyclist blurs past them on the bridge, they step together, Yuuri’s back pressed tight to Vicchan’s chest to make room for the bike. Vicchan’s free hand touches Yuuri’s waist, the stroke of a thumb barely noticeable through clothing, and yet Yuuri shivers.

“Did you enjoy skating this morning?” Yuuri asks when they start to walk again, joined hands swinging between them. 

Vicchan nods, so enthusiastic his loosely braided hair swings wildly, attempting escape from the pink elastics, and Yuuri smiles. “We should skate together. You know… after.”

_After Victor leaves, whenever that might be, whenever I get the spine together to finally tell the man, “No.”_

And Vicchan nods again, still smiling, but his eyes are grey with storms, his attention fleeting. He stares off past Yuuri, where a cloud is gathering on the horizon, lines of fury beneath it foretelling oncoming rain. 

It’s early still when Vicchan crawls up, abandoning the floor to join Yuuri in bed, and Yuuri has his phone out for games and texting, but he squirms to the side, sparing a few extra centimeters for Vicchan to slot himself into, his breath hot and sweet where it gusts across Yuuri’s neck on their shared pillow. The storm they saw earlier has rolled in from across the sea, and rain patters against Yuuri’s window like a woodland creature tapping on the sill to be let inside.

Through the door, they can hear laughter, voices calling out indistinct words in the other rooms, and then someone knocks. It’s not the quiet, polite knock that Hiroko uses -- _tap tap tap_ \-- or Mari’s two firm, informative strikes. This is a punch, a slam. _Bang. Bang. Bang._

Yuuri and Vicchan both freeze, breath caught in their chests as the voice calls out, the tone resting somewhere between a croon and a demand. “Yuuri, let’s get to know each other some more.” A pause, then the door rattles, shaking back and forth on its ancient, untried lock. “Yuuuuri, I want to sleep with you.”

Vicchan’s whimper is inaudible, felt in the puff of his breath and the way he buries his face into Yuuri’s neck, the arm he has thrown over Yuuri’s chest pressing tighter. Wordlessly, Yuuri drops his phone and crosses his arms over Vicchan’s back, pulling him in until the blankets between them seem little more than a polite lie. 

Closing his eyes, Yuuri evens his breathing deliberately, ignores the sound of pacing feet in the hall outside, and pretends as best he can to be asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickie note: I'm participating in the annual FandomTrumpsHate charity auction again this year. Bidding closes tonight at 8 PM EST, and you can dig up more info on that on my twitter or tumblr if you're interested in such things.


	12. Chapter 12

Even a sadistic coach like Victor has to allow for the occasional rest day, though when Yuuri reaches one a couple days later, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. One choice is easy, at least -- he stays in bed a bit longer, awake at his usual time but not moving, feeling the even rise and fall of Vicchan’s ribs beneath his splayed fingers. 

When that isn’t enough, Yuuri gets his phone from the nightstand. He plays some games, texts Phichit good morning, and scrolls through his pathetic social media accounts. The last time he’d posted to Instagram was weeks before he left Detroit, but his feed is full of posts he missed in the meantime from his old rink, his friends, and other skaters. When Vicchan stirs, the rhythm of his breath hitching under Yuuri’s hand, Yuuri pretends not to notice that the other man is awake. He stays still, lets the time stretch and droop like pulled putty, and ignores the brightening sun where it creeps through the gaps in his curtains.

Eventually, though, he can’t pretend any longer. He can heard the occasional clatter or click of a door outside. Sound carries all too easily in this house, and he knows his family will all be up already, starting their days, preparing the onsen. When Yuuri shifts, Vicchan squirms closer, face in his neck and fingers clinging to Yuuri’s bicep, and Yuuri knows the feeling. It reminds him of that day before Victor, the park and the blossoms in the snow, and Vicchan’s flushed cheeks over the tight spin of his borrowed scarf. 

That’s what Yuuri _really_ wants to do with his day off. It’s warm out every day now, the snow long melted and overtaken by April showers. Today should be nice, like a taste of summer, and Yuuri wants to dress Vicchan in his old swim trunks, take him by the hand and haul him out onto the beach, build a sandcastle, chase the waves that are still too cold to climb any higher than his ankles. 

But Yuuri knows that the moment he leaves his bedroom, Victor will be there. Trying to flirt with Victor that day at the rink had been necessary, the best distraction Yuuri had available to make sure Vicchan could sneak out unnoticed, but it’s come back to haunt him. Victor presses ever closer, stalking the hall outside Yuuri’s door at night, snaking his fingers into every crack he can find in Yuuri’s defenses, prying them wider. 

Vicchan can’t go out with him today, and Yuuri _could_ go to the beach without him, or the park, but it wouldn’t be the same. These are the spaces Yuuri has always known, and he wants to see them again now, through Vicchan’s eyes. On his own, the sky would be cloudy, the waves would be dull. Yuuri strokes Vicchan’s upper arm and tucks some stray hair back behind his ear. Vicchan makes a little grumbling noise at that, almost purr-like, and Yuuri turns toward him. Vicchan’s head is right there, bent toward Yuuri’s collar, and Yuuri’s struck by a sudden urge to press his lips there, just there, at the peak of Vicchan’s hairline, where his silver locks turn to fuzz and meet unguarded, pale skin.

Yuuri’s stomach twists. It’s so tempting, that little line of hair that swoops back, the part and swirl of silver. He wants to. He nudges a little closer, until he can see the fine, transparent hairs dancing under his breath. In his arms, Vicchan freezes.

Another slow breath stirs Vicchan’s hair, and neither of them moves. There’s no doubt Vicchan’s _noticed_ now, and that pops the balloon in Yuuri’s gut. Some of the urgency abates, and Yuuri pulls his face back, puts his phone down and raises the arm not pinned under Vicchan up.

 _Boop_ his finger lands, gentle but pointed, at that same swirl of hair.

Vicchan sits up so quickly, Yuuri has to rear back further to avoid getting headbutted in the nose. Blue eyes blown wide, Vicchan fists the collar of his own shirt with one hand, the other coming up to protect his violated hairline as his mouth opens and closes, a flurry of inarticulate but outraged sounds streaming out. Yuuri starts to laugh, then laughs even harder when Vicchan rears back, tipping himself right off the bed to land softly in the center of his discarded pallet. 

He apologizes, choked, for his grave offense, but the words forced out between tears and mirth do little to soothe Vicchan’s wounded looks.

It’s not how Yuuri meant to get up today, but now that he’s no longer pinned to his mattress by dead weight, there’s no excuse not to get moving. He makes the bed back up, picks out his clothes, and gets dressed. Vicchan, seated cross-legged on the pallet, watches the whole time in silence. It’s no different than any other morning, when Yuuri gets ready for the day in his room, except that today there’s sunlight and he knows Vicchan can see him. He can feel those eyes tracing the muscles on his back as he pulls his shirt off, and he keeps his head down, trying to ignore the heat creeping into his cheeks, trying to pretend this is just like changing in a locker room or stripping for the onsen. 

When he turns back to face the room, Vicchan’s attention has shifted. He’s looking off through the gaps in the curtains, where the sun has broken through. 

“We’ll go outside again soon,” Yuuri promises, but the words are bitter on the tip of his tongue. He’s saying _soon_ a lot lately. Vicchan doesn’t even pretend to smile. 

The public rooms are busy this morning, which means there’s more than one person in the dining area and more than two in the bath. Victor is out there too when Yuuri emerges, and his eyes trace Yuuri’s path through the halls, into the common area, and then the kitchen. Though it’s well before noon, Victor already has a green glass bottle tilted in one hand. 

When Yuuri enters the kitchen, his mama looks up from a symphony of steaming pots and pan, and the corners of her eyes crinkle with relief. “Can you help?” she asks, which means she really needs it. Usually, she waits for Yuuri to offer first.

He takes off his jacket, drapes it over the back of a chair, and picks up her second best knife. “What can I do?”

As he expected from the morning crowd, lunch is even worse. The nice weather has pulled half the town from their homes, apparently, and for the first time in years Yuuri sees every table in their dining area being used. He pitches in wherever he can, first in preparing the food and then, when his father hustles into the kitchen and nudges him away, he takes himself to the dining room and fills in there. Mari flashes him a relieved almost-smile when he joins her, her eyebrows raising when she turns to take another order, only to find Yuuri already there. 

They fall easily into old habits with the pressure on, dancing around each other with trays and dishes, laughing softly when one or the other sticks a foot out, pretending to trip the other, only to withdraw at the last possible second. The guests enjoy it too. Most of them are old enough to remember when the tripping was less of a joke, when it was a moody, seventeen year old Mari swerving to avoid a crash with Yuuri, still small enough he could barely carry a full pitcher of water without sloshing it all over himself.

A busy lunch service makes the time fly by. Yuuri’s so focused on serving all the guests, he doesn’t notice the hunger clawing at his own stomach until things begin to calm. Some of the townspeople filter out, heading to the beach or back to their own homes. Others linger, crowding around tables together to swap stories and watch TV, waiting for their food to digest before they move along to the bath. Victor hasn’t moved since the morning. If Mari weren’t swinging by his table periodically to clean up, half the surface would be empty bottles by now.

With the number of guests dwindling, Yuuri finally gets a minute to set work aside. Mari is leaning up against a wall, picking at the fabric of her pants with thumb and forefingers. She’s itching for a cigarette, but Mama doesn’t like it when she smokes on the porch in front of customers. 

Yuuri joins her, pressing his own shoulderblades to the same wall, the width of a hand between them. She turns and assesses him, giving him a slow up and down look before her mouth twitches into a crooked smile.

“Thanks for that,” she says.

Yuuri nods, not sure how to reply. He did help, but, well, he should have been doing that sooner. More often. Mari had called him out on not bothering enough with the onsen multiple times since he arrived, and for the most part he’s ignored her. But, she’s right. He should be helping. 

“When Victor leaves,” Yuuri begins, and then the front door bursts open.

A monster barrels barrels into the room, huge and covered in a thick coat of brown fur. Yuuri presses back into the wall. Even with his mind racing at twice the usual anxious speed, it takes a few gasping breaths before the creature in the doorway resolves itself into a dog. 

Not just any dog, but a standard poodle. Her tail is wagging frantically, pink tongue panting from a grinning teddy bear mouth, and Yuuri is still putting the pieces of that puzzle together when a boy tears through the door after her, both his hands clutching the other end of a leash.

“VICTOR!” Yuuri can only stare, open mouthed, as a figure straight out of his weirdest Sochi-related nightmares appears. Yuri Plisetsky, the “Ice Tiger” of Russia, last seen in a public restroom, is now _in Yuuri’s home_ , standing all of 165 centimeters in his platform, leopard print boots. He’s been here less than a minute, and he’s already yelling again. 

_He must yell a lot_ , Yuuri thinks. Off-ice, he’s never seen the kid _not_ yelling.

The dining room is frozen, guests staring. Yuuri’s parents pop their heads out of the kitchen, curious, but no one moves. Plisetsky’s green eyes sweep the room, then laser in on the other Russian. A flash of triumph flickers across his features, and he levels an accusing finger across the room.

“There you are! I knew I’d find you here, you bastard. Thought you could just run off to Japan and escape me, huh? Well, screw you! You’re not getting off that easy. You _owe_ me. We had a _bargain_.”

As Yuri rants, stabbing the air in Victor’s direction, the older man never moves -- except once. He straightens at the word “bargain,” tilting his head as if the movement will shake his memory loose.

“Whatever stupid game you’re playing with the has-been Yuuri, it’s over now,” Yuri continues, undeterred by the eyes of a dozen strangers aimed his direction. “We’re going back to Russia. And take your stupid dog back, you asshole!” He hauls at the leash, though he doesn’t need to -- Makkachin trots along easily. “I thought you were selfish, but abandoning your pet while you leave the country is a new low!”

It’s clear Yuri’s not out of material yet. Yuuri can almost see steam coming from the teenager’s ears. He steps forward, reluctant to interfere, and Victor finally unfolds himself, rising from the floor and raising both palms in a placating gesture. From behind, Yuuri sees Plisetsky’s shoulders tense, his hackles rising.

Victor takes two steps toward the boy, and a low growl threads through the room.

At first, Yuuri thinks the “Ice Tiger” himself is actually growling. Then, he notices Makkachin. The poodle is standing stone still, the brown fur in her back creeping up into a ruff. Her tail hangs low and stiff, and when Victor moves forward again, she sinks back on her haunches. The growl increases in volume and pitch, becoming a whine.

Victor and Plisetsky are _arguing_ now, and they’ve switched to Russian, so it’s all going over Yuuri’s head, but even if they were speaking Japanese he wouldn’t be able to make sense of them. Yuuri’s attention, all of it, is on the dog. 

As Victor steps closer, gesturing to emphasize his words, Makkachin shrinks back again and again. Her whimpers raise in pitch but grow quieter. Her skin visibly quivers as she scoots to sit behind Yuri, keeping the teenager between herself and her owner.

Another step closer, and an invisible tether snaps. Makkachin rises and _lunges_ away from Yuri and Victor, so sudden that the movement rips the end of the leash from Yuri’s loose grasp. The arguing stops as both Russians stare at the dog, leash trailing behind her as she dashes past them both, fleeing deeper into the house.

“I’ll get her!” Yuuri shouts, volunteering without a second thought. He takes off on the poodle’s trail, not bothering to look over his shoulder or wait for permission to go. Since the second Plisetsky burst through the door, Yuuri’s been wanting an excuse to get away from him, and he can’t shake a strange, crawling feeling on his spine as he thinks about the way Makkachin was behaving.

He’s never met the dog before, but he’s seen plenty of pictures over the years -- Makkachin off leash, running at Victor’s side; Makkachin panting happily, splayed across Victor’s broad chest on the couch; Makkachin as a puppy, sleeping tucked under Victor’s arm. She’s been Victor’s closest companion for many years now, and for Victor to simply leave her in St. Petersburg, for her to growl and back away from him in that way, none of it sits right with Yuuri.

She’d disappeared down the hall, so Yuuri checks the shrine room first. The smell of food laid out for offering would have caught any dog’s attention, but the room is empty aside from some whisps of smoke, a flickering light illuminating the photo at the heart of the shrine. Yuuri stops, hand on the edge of the door. The candlelight glints on a curl of smoke reaching for the floor, and for a second Yuuri thinks he sees something in it, something like the tilt of a familiar little head.

 _Thump_. Yuuri’s head snaps up, staring at the nondescript ceiling. He turns on his heel and scrambles for the nearby stairs, taking them two at a time, then it’s down another narrow hall. His bedroom door stands open, a chunk of golden light escaping into the dark hallway, and Yuuri hears another _thump_ , then a strange, trilling sort of noise. 

He’s at the door in an instant, totally unprepared for what he finds inside.

Vicchan is on top of his pallet on the floor, kneeling, but bowled backward. A wide grin splits his face in two as Makkachin worms around him, her whole body wiggling as she slathers every part of him with eager kisses. Vicchan has his hands up, not to fend her off, but reaching out, his fingers catching here and there on fur. The trilling noise again -- singing forth from Vicchan’s throat, his blue eyes dancing with joy even as Makkachin plants her fluffy feet on his shoulders from behind and laves his hair with her long pink tongue.

Hearing footsteps, Yuuri spins to block the doorway, but it’s only his mama and sister on the steps, both of them craning to see past Yuuri into the room. He steps aside, and even Mari’s face softens at the sight of Vicchan on the floor, his arms coiled around Makkachin’s body, his eyes closed now as she thoroughly bathes his face. 

“Well, that answers that,” Hiroko says.

At the same time, Mari asks, “What are you going to do now?”

Yuuri looks back at the poodle, motionless in Vicchan’s arms save for her ever-wagging tail. Vicchan’s quiet again too, his face pressed fully into Makkachin’s furry shoulders. 

For weeks, Yuuri’s been second-guessing himself. That’s not surprising; if self-doubt were in an Olympic event, Yuuri would win gold every time. He can dodge and ignore his instincts. He can do backflips when it comes to avoiding the evidence in front of his own eyes. But, looking back at his mother and sister now, he knows they’re all seeing the same thing. 

Makkachin knows who her master is. There’s no reason for the dog to lie. 

Whoever is in the dining room downstairs, arguing with Yuri Plisetsky, they don’t belong here.

Steel washes through Yuuri’s body as that reality sinks in. Whoever -- whatever -- is in his home, with his family, Yuuri is the one who invited it here. Yuuri is the one who made excuses for it to stay, despite everything that meant.

“Stay here with Vicchan,” he tells his mama. “I’ll be right back.” The strength in his voice surprises him, but his family isn’t phased. They only nod in agreement, and then his mother and sister both move past him into the room. There’s no comment, aside from a brief brush of Mari’s fingers on his shoulder. It feels like _good luck_.

Downstairs, Yuri and Victor are still arguing, though they’ve lowered the voices somewhat. The onsen guests who are still left haven’t moved a bit, all of them watching, sipping their drinks as if the situation were nothing more than a late night TV drama.

When Yuuri walks in, Victor shoots him a glance, then abruptly switches to English. “For the last time, no. I’m not going back to Russia. I’m staying here. I’m coaching Yuuri. That’s final.”

Plisetsky’s face, already flushed, reddens like a fire alarm. He’s warming up, ready to blow, but first Yuuri cuts in.

“Actually, I think Plisetsky is right.” All eyes are on Yuuri now -- the two Russians, the guests scattered across the dining room, and though he can’t see him, Yuuri senses his papa watching closely from the kitchen behind him. “You should go back to Russia.”

Victor’s face transforms. His quirked, aloof smile drops away. His ice blue eyes seem almost silver as his hair. His lips part, showing teeth, but Yuuri has no illusion this is a friendly grin. “Yuuri. You can’t mean that.”

Yuuri folds his arms. “I mean exactly what I said. Victor, you have to leave. I want you gone. Now.”

Like a wind-up toy, Victor snaps to attention. His face is a flat mask, and his lips seem to fight back against his tongue as he spits out, “ _Fine._ ”

He walks out, not stopping to gather his things or even to change into his shoes. Yuuri watches the door shut behind him, hears his footsteps as the old porch steps groan beneath his weight.

Yuri Plisetsky is watching too. For a long, quiet moment, he stares at the door. His green eyes are wide as a child’s, lips parted on a breath, and Yuuri remembers suddenly how young the other Yuri really is. He’d been so impassioned, demanding Victor leave, but now that he has his wish, he seems to doubt it.

It feels like Yuuri should say something. “Yuri… We’ll take care of Makkachin, if that helps. That way she doesn’t need to go through quarantine,” he begins. “If you wanted to stay a while too--”

The boy turns sharply to face him, eyes once again sharp and jaded. “Look at that,” Plisetsky jabs. “I barely had to work at all to steal your coach. At this rate, I won’t even need to break a sweat to beat you this season. I’ll show who the superior Yuri is when I win the Grand Prix Final.”

He pokes Yuuri in the center of his chest, his smirk a mask that doesn’t falter again. Then, he turns on heel, following Victor to the door. He pauses only briefly when his fingers on the handle, doesn’t look back as he mutters, “You better take good care of the stupid dog.” 

Without another word, he’s gone.

Someone coughs in the dining room. All the guests are staring down at their tables, pretending they hadn’t been fixated on the drama unfolding just minutes ago. Yuuri lets them have their polite fiction. 

His father is standing in the kitchen doorway when Yuuri walks past, and he smiles. “Tell Mama I’ve got everything under control in here.” He pauses, then adds, “You did the right thing.”

For once, Yuuri didn’t need to be told that, but he appreciates the reassurance.

The stairs up to their residential space have never felt like such a long climb. He may as well be ascending a mountain during a pilgrimage for the weight he senses in each step. Victor is gone, or perhaps Yuuri should think of him as Not Victor now, and as he climbs the darkened staircase, he’s not sure what he expects to find at the top. 

His bedroom door is still open, and he can hear quiet, indistinct murmurs down the hall. Someone is talking, their voice low and careful, and Yuuri slips toward the doorway on mouse paws.

Mari is sitting backwards at his desk, her legs parted around the backrest. His mama is perched on the edge of his twin bed, hands on her knees. Both of them are focused on the floor, where Vicchan is splayed out on his back on the pallet, Makkachin draped over his torso. When Yuuri walks in, he tries to sit up, but the dog won’t move, so he only manages to prop himself onto his elbows. His silver hair is in disarray, his face still split in a grin so wide that Yuuri feels the ache of it in his own cheeks. 

Since Vicchan can’t get up, Yuuri sinks down to kneel on the floor by his feet. Makkachin wags her tail when he gets close, then leans over to sniff and lick his fingers. Yuuri’s family looks on in silence, waiting for him to speak.

“He’s gone,” Yuuri says quietly, burying his fingers in the fur on Makka’s ears. “Victor -- I mean, the other Victor, I guess. I told him to leave, and he just… walked out.” Part of Yuuri’s brain is _screaming_ about how utterly weird that is, but it doesn’t change what happened. He was there. The man had simply left, and now isn’t the time to deal with any of the strangeness related to that.

Now, Vicchan is hugging him. His arms are wound across Yuuri’s shoulders, and Makkachin is squirming between them, lifting her head to try to lick each of their faces in turn. Yuuri hugs back, tight, because this is what he has. This is what he wants to hold onto. He knows his family is watching, but he doesn’t feel anything from them but love and pride, so he lets himself stroke Vicchan’s hair and leans into his touch. 

Some part of him, raised on old legends and folk tales by his grandparents, used to hearing whispers from the elders in Hasetsu, expected something to happen now. He’s made his choice. He’s banished the Victor who wasn’t Victor, the thing that was out of place, and he knows that his choice was correct.

But Vicchan’s whisper in his ear is the same nonsense, happy burbling as before. Nothing has changed.

Nothing, except that they’re free. 

Yuuri pulls back, and when he stands, he extends both hands to Vicchan. Makkachin wiggles away, and Yuuri pulls the other man to his feet. He doesn’t bother to let go of those hands as he turns to smile at his mama and sister. 

“Come on, then,” Hiroko says. “It’s past time we all went downstairs to get something to eat. We’ve missed lunch!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I await the yells

**Author's Note:**

> One final thing I’d like to say about this story before you move along: I expect this will be my last YOI longfic for the foreseeable future. I’ve been feeling this way about it for a while, so I put a lot into this one, as even before I finished writing it I realized I was composing a swan song. 
> 
> This decision isn’t about a lack of content, or waiting for the movie, or the fandom “dying,” but for my own reasons. I hope to occasionally dip my toes back in here in the future, but for the time being I’ll be on a break aside from finishing up this specific story. If you’re curious, I’ve written up a longer post about this decision that I’ll be posting on my Tumblr today.
> 
> In the meantime, I hope you continue to read and enjoy “feet,” as I call it, and welcome to 2021.


End file.
